LOUISE  JORDAN  MJLN 


ia 


MR.  WU 


BY 

LOUISE  JORDAN  MILN 


(MRS. 


GEORGE  CRICHTON 


MILN) 


Based  on  the  Play  "Mr.  Wu"  by 
H.  M.   VERNON  and  HAROLD  OWEN 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved 

FIRST  PRINTING,  DECEMBER  22,  1919 
SECOND  PRINTING,  FEBRUARY  6,  1920 
THIRD  PRINTING,  FEBRUARY  24,  1920 
FOURTH  PRINTING,  .  JULY  1,  1920 
FIFTH  PRINTING,  OCTOBER  13,  1920 
SIXTH  PRINTING,  FEBRUARY  5,  1921 
SEVENTH  PRINTING,  APRIL  19,  1921 
EIGHTH  PRINTING,  .  JUNE  9,  1921 
NINTH  PRINTING,  .  AUGUST  3,  1921 
TENTH  PRINTING,  NOVEMBER  3,  1921 
ELEVENTH  PRINTING,  FEB.  20,  1922 
TWELFTH  PRINTING,  AUGUST  3,  1922 
THIRTEENTH  PRINTING,  JULY  21,  1923 
FOURTEENTH  PRINTING,  JAN.  8, 1925 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


PS 
352.5 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PACK 

I  Wu  CHING  Yu  AND  Wu  Li  CHANG  ...      1 

II    AT  RICE 7 

III  THE  MARRIAGE  JOURNEY 14 

IV  WEE  MRS.  Wu 22 

V    HOMING 27 

VI    HEART  ACHE 31 

VII    A  TORTURED  BOYHOOD 36 

VIII    SoM*i  BALM 45 

IX    Wu  Li  Lu 52 

X    NANG  PING    ....      , 58 

XI  IN  THE  LOTUS  GARDEN  .     *                     .     .     62 

XII    O  CURSE  OP  ASIA! ,     77 

XIII  MRS.  GREGORY 87 

XIV  NANG'S  VIGIL 93 

XV  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  MOTHERS    ....     98 

XVI    GRIT 113 

XVII    THE  SIGNAL  OF  THE  GONG 124 

XVIII  AT  THE  FEET  OF  KWANYIN  Ko    .                   128 

XIX    PREPARATION        132 

XX  WHAT  Wu  DID  IN  PROOF  OF  LOVE    .         .     .  137 

XXI    A  CONFERENCE 146 

XXII    SING  KUNG  YAH'S  FLOWERS 156 

XXIII  AH  WONG 161 

XXIV  IN  THE  CLUTCH  OF  THE  TONGS      ....  170 
XXV    WORSE  AND  WORSE 177 

XXVI    SUSPENSE 182 

XXVII  THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  DUEL     ....  190 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

XXVIII  SOMETHING  TO  Go  ON 203 

XXIX  "WILL  You  VISIT  SING  KUNG  YAH?"    .     .  207 

XXX  SMILING  WELCOME 220 

XXXI  FACE  TO  FACE 228 

XXXII  "CUB!" 236 

XXXIII  A  CHINESE  TEACHING 241 

XXXIV  ALONE  IN  CHINA 246 

XXXV  THE  STORY  OP  THE  SWORD 256 

XXXVI  IN  THE  PAGODA  AND  ON  THE  BENCH   .     .     .  265 

XXXVII    THE  FAN 270 

XXXVIII    THE  GONG 276 

XXXIX    AFTERWARDS 286 

XL    A  GUEST  ON  HIGH 292 

XLI    "JUST  WITH  Us" 294 

XLII  THE  DUST  OF  CHINA  FROM  THEIR  FEET   .     .  300 

XLIII    ENGLISH  WEDDING  BELLS 307 

XLIV  THE  SOUND  OF  A  CHINESE  GONG  .                .  312 


MR.  WU 

CHAPTER  I 

Wu  CHING  Yu  AND  "Wu  Li  CHANG 

A  LOOK  of  terror  glinted  across  the  eyes  slit  in  the 
child 's  moon-shaped  yellow  face,  but  he  stood  stock 
still  and  silent — respectful  and  obedient. 

The  very  old  man  in  the  chair  of  carved  and  inlaid 
teak  wood  saw  the  glint  of  fear,  and  he  liked  it  fiercely, 
although  he  came  of  a  clan  renowned  for  fearlessness, 
even  in  a  race  that  for  personal  courage  has  never  been 
matched — unless  by  the  British,  the  race  which  of  all 
others  it  most  resembles.  Old  Wu  adored  little  Wu,  and 
was  proud  of  him  with  a  jealous  pride,  but  he  knew  that 
there  was  nothing  craven  in  the  fear  that  had  looked  for 
one  uncontrolled  instant  from  his  grandson's  narrow 
eye — nothing  craven,  but  love  for  himself,  love  of  home, 
and  a  reluctance  to  leave  both ;  a  reluctance  that  he  was 
the  last  man  in  China  to  resent  or  to  misestimate. 

Wu  the  grandfather  was  eighty.  Wu  the  grandson 
was  ten. 

Rich  almost  beyond  the  dreams  of  even  Chinese  avarice, 
the  mandarin  was  warmly  wrapped  in  clothes  almost 
coolie-plain;  but  the  youngster,  who  was  but  his  senior's 
chattel,  would  have  pawned  for  a  fortune  as  he  stood,  a 
ridiculous,  gorgeous  figure  of  warmth  and  of  affluence, 
almost  half  as  broad  as  long,  by  virtue  of  padding.  His 

1 


2  MR.  WU 

stiffly  embroidered  robe  of  yellow  silk  was  worn  ovei 
three  quilted  coats,  silk  too,  and  well  wadded  with  down 
of  the  Manchurian  eider  duck,  and  above  the  yellow  silk 
surcoat  he  wore  a  slightly  shorter  one  of  rich  fur,  fur- 
lined  and  also  wadded.  The  fur  top-coat  was  buttoned 
with  jewels.  The  yellow  coat  was  sewn  with  pearls  and 
with  emeralds.  Jewels  winked  on  the  thick  little  padded 
shoes  and  blazed  on  his  little  skull  cap. 

For  himself  the  mandarin  took  his  ease  in  unencum 
bered  old  clothes,  but  it  pleased  his  arrogant  pride  and 
his  love  of  the  gorgeous  that  his  small  grandson  should 
be  garbed,  even  in  the  semi-seclusion  of  their  isolated 
country  estate,  as  if  paying  a  visit  of  state  to  the  boy 
Emperor  at  Pekin.  As  little  "Wu  was  of  royal  blood 
himself,  he  might  indeed  by  some  right  of  caste  so  have 
visited  in  no  servile  role,  for  on  his  mother's  side  the  lad 
was  of  more  than  royal  blood,  descended  from  the  two 
supreme  Chinese,  descent  from  whom  confers  the  only 
hereditary  nobility  of  China.  Perhaps  the  yellows  that  he 
often  wore  hinted  at  this  discreetly.  The  sartorial  boast 
(if  boast  it  was)  was  well  controlled,  for  true  yellow  was 
the  imperial  color,  sacred  to  the  Emperor,  and  young 
Wu's  yellows  were  always  on  the  amber  side,  or  on  the 
lemon;  and  even  so  he  might  have  worn  them  less  in 
Pekin  than  he  did  here  in  the  Sze-chuan  stronghold  of 
his  house. 

The  room  was  very  warm,  and  seemed  no  cooler  for 
the  scented  prayer-sticks  that  were  burning  profusely 
in  the  carved  recess  where  the  ancestral  tablet  hung, 
and  as  he  talked  with  and  studied  the  boy,  whom  he  had 
studied  for  every  hour  of  the  young  life,  the  upright  old 
man  with  the  gaunt,  withered,  pockmarked  face  fanned 
himself  incessantly.  Little  Wu  had  run  in  from  his 
play  in  the  bitterly  cold  garden,  all  fur-clad  as  he  was. 


WU  CHING  YU  AND  WU  LI  CHANG          3 

The  mandarin  had  sent  for  him,  and  he  had  not  stayed 
to  throw  off  even  one  of  his  thick  garments.  Old  Wu 
was  not  accustomed  to  be  kept  waiting  or  the  grandchild 
to  delay. 

"Well?"  the  old  man  demanded,  "you  have  heard. 
What  do  you  say?" 

The  quaint  little  figure  kotowed  almost  to  the  ground. 
It  was  wonderful  that  a  form  so  swathed  and  padded 
could  bend  so  low,  wonderful  that  the  jewel-heavy  cap 
kept  its  place.  His  little  cue  swept  the  polished  floor, 
and  his  stiff  embroideries  of  gem-sewn  kingfisher  feathers 
creaked  as  he  bent.  He  bent  thrice  before  he  answered, 
his  hands  meekly  crossed,  his  eyes  humbly  on  the  ground : 
"Most  Honorable,  thou  art  a  thousand  years  old,  and, 
O  thrice  Honorable  Sir,  ten  thousand  times  wise.  Thy 
despicable  worm  entreats  thy  jadelike  pardon  that  he 
pollutes  with  his  putrid  presence  thy  plum-blossomed 
eyes.  Thou  hast  spoken.  I  thank  thee  for  thy  gracious 
words. ' ' 

"Art  thou  glad  to  go?" 

*'  Thy  child  is  glad,  Sir  most  renowned  and  venerable, 
to  obey  thy  wish." 

"Art  glad  to  go?" 

The  boy  swept  again  to  the  ground,  and,  bending  up, 
spread  out  his  pink  palms  in  a  gesture  of  pleased  accept 
ance.  "Most  glad,  0  ancient  long-beard." 

The  grandfather  laughed.  "Nay,  thou  liest.  Thou 
art  loth  to  go.  And  I  am  loth  to  have  thee  go.  But  it 
is  best,  and  so  I  send  thee."  He  held  out  his  yellow, 
claw-like  hand,  and  little  Wu  came  and  caught  it  to  his 
forehead,  then  stood  leaning  against  the  other's  knee, 
and  began  playing  with  the  long  string  of  scented  beads 
that  hung  about  the  man's  neck. 

"Well,"  the  mandarin  said  again,  "say  all  that  is 


4  MR.  WU 

in  thy  heart.    Leave  off  the  words  of  ceremony.     Speak 
simply.     Say  what  thou  wilt. ' ' 

''When  do  I  go?"  It  was  characteristically  Chinese 
that  such  was  the  question,  and  not  "Must  I  go?"  or 
even  "Why  must  I  go?"  The  grandfather  had  said 
that  he  was  to  go:  that  point  was  settled.  From  that 
will  there  was  no  appeal.  The  boy  scarcely  knew  that 
there  were  children  who  did  not  obey  their  parents 
implicitly  and  always.  That  there  were  countries — in 
the  far  off  foreign-devils '  land — where  filial  disobedience 
was  almost  the  rule,  he  had  never  heard  and  could  not 
have  believed.  Of  course,  in  the  classics,  which  even 
now  he  read  easily,  there  were  runaway  marriages  and 
undutiful  offspring  now  and  then.  But  the  end  of  all 
such  offenders  was  beyond  horror  horrible,  and  even  so 
little  Wu  had  always  regarded  them  as  literary  make 
weight,  artistic  shades  to  throw  up  the  high  lights  whiter, 
shadows  grotesque  and  devilish  as  some  of  his  grandsire  's 
most  precious  carvings  were,  and  scarcely  as  flesh  and 
blood  possibilities. 

In  all  their  ten  years  together  there  had  been  between 
these  two  nothing  but  love  and  kindness.  No  child  in 
China  (where  children  are  adored)  had  ever  been  more 
indulged;  no  child  in  China  (where  children  are 
guarded)  more  strictly  disciplined.  The  older  Wu  had 
loved  and  ruled ;  the  younger  Wu  had  loved  and  obeyed 
always.  They  live  life  so  in  China. 

' '  When  do  I  go  ? "  was  all  the  boy  said. 

"Soon  after  your  marriage  moon:  the  third  next 
moon,  as  I  plan  it." 

The  child's  face  glowed  and  creamed  with  relief. 
He  was  only  ten,  and — at  least  in  that  part  of  the  Em 
pire — older  bridegrooms  were  the  rule.  If  the  dreaded 
exile  were  not  to  begin  until  after  his  marriage,  years 


WU  CHING  YU  AND  WU  LI  CHANG          5 

hence,  all  its  intricate  ceremonial,  all  its  long-drawn-out 
preliminaries,  and  happily  to  be  delayed  again  and  again 
by  the  astrologers,  why,  then  here  was  respite  indeed. 

"Nay,"  the  mandarin  said,  shaking  his  old  head  a 
little  sadly,  "think  not  so.  Thy  marriage  will  be  when 
the  cherry  trees  in  Honan  next  bloom." 

"Oh!"  the  boy  just  breathed  his  surprise. 

"I  think  it  best,"  the  old  man  added.  "Your  wife 
was  born  last  month.  The  runners  reached  me  yester 
day  with  the  letter  of  her  honorable  father." 

Little  "Wu  was  interested.  He  had  read  of  such  mar 
riages  and  he  knew  that  they  really  took  place  some 
times.  He  rather  liked  the  scheme — if  only  he  need  not 
go  to  England  for  hideous  years  of  wifeless  honeymoon ! 
He  had  heard  none  of  the  details  of  his  exile — only  the 
hateful  fact.  But  his  Chinese  instinct  divined  that  in 
all  probability  young  Mrs.  "Wu  would  not  accompany 
him.  Yes,  he  rather  liked  the  idea  of  a  wife.  He  was 
desperately  fond  of  babies,  and  often  had  two  or  three 
brought  from  the  retainers'  quarters  that  he  might 
play  with  them  and  feed  them  perfumed  sugar-flowers. 
He  hoped  his  grandfather  would  tell  him  more  of  his 
baby-betrothed. 

But  the  grandfather  did  not,  now  at  all  events,  nor 
did  he  add  anything  to  the  less  pleasant  piece  of  news, 
but  rose  stiffly  from  his  chair,  saying,  "Strike  the 
gong." 

The  boy  went  quickly  to  a  great  disk  of  beaten  and 
filigreed  gold  that  hung  over  a  big  porcelain  tub  of  glow 
ing  azaleas,  caught  up  an  ivory  snake-entwined  rod  of 
tortoise-shell,  and  beat  upon  the  gong.  He  struck  it  but 
once,  but  at  the  sound  servants  came  running — half  a 
dozen  or  more,  clad  in  blue  linen,  the  "Wu"  crest 
Worked  between  the  shoulders. 


6  MR.  WU 

"Rice,"  the  master  said,  and  held  out  his  hand  to 
the  child. 

"Lean  on  me,  lean  en  me  hard,"  pleaded  the  boy; 
"thy  venerable  bones  are  tired." 

"They  ache  to-day,"  the  octogenarian  admitted 
grimly.  "But  untie  thyself  first,  my  frogling.  Thou 
canst  not  eat  so — we  are  going  to  rice,  and  not  into  thy 
beloved  snow  and  ice." 

The  child  slipped  out  of  his  fur,  and  cast  it  from  him. 
His  quick  fingers  made  light  work  of  buttons,  clasps  and 
cords.  Garment  followed  garment  to  the  floor,  and  as 
they  fell  servants  ran  and  knelt  and  picked  them  up 
almost  reverently,  until  the  boy  drew  a  long  free  breath, 
clad  only  in  a  flowing  robe  of  thin  crimson  tussore:  a 
little  upright  figure,  graceful,  and  for  a  Chinese  boy  very 
thin.  Then  the  old  man  laid  his  hand,  not  lightly, 
on  the  young  shoulder;  and  so  they  went  together  to 
their  rice. 


CHAPTER  II 
AT  RICE 

JAMES  MUIR  was  waiting  for  them  in  the  room 
where  their  meal  was  served.  There  were  but  two 
meals  in  that  household — breakfast  and  dinner — or 
rather  but  two  for  the  mandarin  and  those  who  shared 
his  rice ;  the  servants  ate  three  times  a  day,  such  few  of 
them  as  ate  in  the  house  at  all.  But  there  was  a  fine 
mastery  of  the  art  of  dining,  as  well  as  a  good  deal  of 
clockwork,  in  the  old  Chinese's  constitution;  and  Muir, 
at  liberty  to  command  food  when  and  where  he  would, 
found  it  convenient  and  entertaining  to  eat  with  his 
pupil  and  his  host. 

For  three  years  the  young  Scot  had  held,  and  filled 
admirably,  a  chair  in  the  University  of  Pekin.  The  post 
had  been  well  paid,  and  he  had  enjoyed  it  hugely,  and  the 
Pekin  background  of  life  no  less ;  but  old  Wu  had  lured 
him  from  it  with  a  salary  four  times  as  generous,  and 
with  an  opportunity  to  study  China  and  Chinese  life 
from  the  inside  such  as  probably  no  Briton  had  had 
before,  and  far  more  complete  and  intimate  than  the 
no  mean  opportunity  afforded  by  his  professorship  in 
the  capital. 

Chinese  to  the  core  and  Chinese  to  the  remotest  tip 
of  his  longest  spiral-twisted  and  silver-shielded  finger 
nail,  Wu  Ching  Yu,  astute  and  contemplative  even  be 
yond  his  peers,  searching  the  future  anxiously  saw 
strange  things  ahead  of  this  native  land  of  his  burning 

7 


6  MR.  WU 

"Rice,"  the  master  said,  and  held  out  his  hand  to 
the  child. 

"Lean  on  me,  lean  on  me  hard,"  pleaded  the  boy; 
"thy  venerable  bones  are  tired." 

"They  ache  to-day,"  the  octogenarian  admitted 
grimly.  "But  untie  thyself  first,  my  frogling.  Thou 
canst  not  eat  so — we  are  going  to  rice,  and  not  into  thy 
beloved  snow  and  ice." 

The  child  slipped  out  of  his  fur,  and  cast  it  from  him. 
His  quick  fingers  made  light  work  of  buttons,  clasps  and 
cords.  Garment  followed  garment  to  the  floor,  and  as 
they  fell  servants  ran  and  knelt  and  picked  them  up 
almost  reverently,  until  the  boy  drew  a  long  free  breath, 
clad  only  in  a  flowing  robe  of  thin  crimson  tussore:  a 
little  upright  figure,  graceful,  and  for  a  Chinese  boy  very 
thin.  Then  the  old  man  laid  his  hand,  not  lightly, 
on  the  young  shoulder;  and  so  they  went  together  to 
their  rice. 


CHAPTER  II 
AT  RICE 

JAMES  MUIR  was  waiting  for  them  in  the  room 
where  their  meal  was  served.  There  were  but  two 
meals  in  that  household — breakfast  and  dinner — or 
rather  but  two  for  the  mandarin  and  those  who  shared 
his  rice ;  the  servants  ate  three  times  a  day,  such  few  of 
them  as  ate  in  the  house  at  all.  But  there  was  a  fine 
mastery  of  the  art  of  dining,  as  well  as  a  good  deal  of 
clockwork,  in  the  old  Chinese's  constitution;  and  Muir, 
at  liberty  to  command  food  when  and  where  he  would, 
found  it  convenient  and  entertaining  to  eat  with  his 
pupil  and  his  host. 

For  three  years  the  young  Scot  had  held,  and  filled 
admirably,  a  chair  in  the  University  of  Pekin.  The  post 
had  been  well  paid,  and  he  had  enjoyed  it  hugely,  and  the 
Pekin  background  of  life  no  less ;  but  old  Wu  had  lured 
him  from  it  with  a  salary  four  times  as  generous,  and 
with  an  opportunity  to  study  China  and  Chinese  life 
from  the  inside  such  as  probably  no  Briton  had  had 
before,  and  far  more  complete  and  intimate  than  the 
no  mean  opportunity  afforded  by  his  professorship  in 
the  capital. 

Chinese  to  the  core  and  Chinese  to  the  remotest  tip 
of  his  longest  spiral-twisted  and  silver-shielded  finger 
nail,  Wu  Ching  Yu,  astute  and  contemplative  even  be 
yond  his  peers,  searching  the  future  anxiously  saw 
strange  things  ahead  of  this  native  land  of  his  burning 

7 


10  MR.  WU 

wrestle  and  tilt,  and  once  he  had  beaten  his  grandfather 
at  chess. 

He  had  worked  well  with  Muir,  and  Muir  w.th  him. 
They  liked  each  other.  And  after  three  years  of  con 
stant  drilling,  always  followed  industriously  and  often 
enthusiastically,  the  young  Chinese  had  a  glib  smattering 
of  European  lore,  dates,  grammar,  facts.  Europe  itself 
— real  Europe — was  a  closed  book  to  him,  of  course. 
The  mandarin  understood  that.  But  a  few  years  in  the 
West  would  mend  all  that:  and  then  the  beloved  boy 
should  come  home,  to  serve  China  and  to  rule  his  own 
destiny. 

Between  the  old  Chinese  mandarin  and  the  young 
Scotchman  a  sincere  friendship  had  grown — and  almost 
inevitably,  for  they  had  so  much  in  common,  and  so  much 
mutual  respect.  Each  was  honest,  manly,  and  a  gentle 
man.  Each  had  self-control,  generosity,  deliberation, 
taste  and  a  glowing  soul.  Three  years  of  daily  inter 
course,  and  something  of  intimacy,  had  destroyed  com 
pletely  such  slight  remaining  prejudice  as  either  had  had 
against  the  other's  race  when  they  met  at  Pekin. 

Wu  the  grandfather  was  never  long  or  far  from  the 
side  of  Wu  the  grandson.  James  Muir  had  taught  one 
Wu  almost  as  much  (though  not  as  systematically)  as 
he  had  taught  the  other.  And  they  had  taught  him 
more  than  he  had  taught  them :  the  child  unconsciously, 
the  mandarin  with  conscious  glee.  All  three  had  been 
eager  to  learn,  the  men  more  eager  than  the  boy;  and 
the  teacher  who  is  at  home  always  has  a  wide  and  deep 
advantage  over  the  teacher  who  is  abroad.  Background, 
environment,  each  smallest  detail  and  petty  reiteration 
of  daily  life,  aid  the  teacher  who  instructs  in  his  own 
country,  but  impede  and  thwart  the  teacher  who  in 
structs  aliens  in  theirs. 


AT  RICE  11 

Chinese  families  who  live  in  some  state  usually  eat 
in  the  great  hall — the  k'o-tang,  or  guest-hall — of  their 
house,  as  far  as  they  have  any  usual  eating  place.  But 
more  often  than  not  when  in  residence  here  the  Wus 
"dined"  (of  course,  they  used  for  it  no  such  term:  it 
was,  as  were  all  their  meals,  just  "rice")  in  the  chamber 
in  which  the  two  men  and  the  child  now  sat.  This 
house  had  more  than  one  great  hall,  and  several  rooms 
larger  than  this,  though  it  was  far  from  small. 

It  was  a  passionate  room.  It  throbbed  with  color, 
with  perfume,  with  flowers,  with  quaint  picked  music 
and  with  a  dozen  glows  and  warmths  of  wealth. 

High  towards  the  red  and  sea-green  lacquered  roof, 
carved  and  scrolled  with  silver  and  blue,  a  balcony  of 
pungent  sandal-wood  jutted  from  the  wall.  The  floor 
of  the  balcony  was  solid,  and  from  it  hung  three  splendid 
but  delicate  lamps,  filled  with  burning  attar.  The  rail 
ing  of  the  balcony  was  carved  with  dragons,  gods,  bam 
boos  and  lotus  flowers,  and  within  the  railing  sat  three 
sing-song  girls.  They  were  silent  and  motionless  until, 
at  a  gesture  of  the  master's  hand,  the  eunuch,  who  was 
their  choirmaster  and  their  guardian,  spoke  a  syllable, 
and  then  thej'  began  a  soft  chant  to  the  tinkling  accom 
paniment  of  their  instruments.  One  played  an  ivory 
lute,  one  a  lacquered  flute,  the  third  cymbals  and  bells; 
and  the  eunurh  drew  a  deeper,  more  throbbing  note  from 
his  chin  or  rvtudent's  lute — five  feet  long,  with  seven 
strings  of  silk ,  its  office  to  soothe  man 's  soul  and  drive  all 
evil  from  his  heart.  In  the  corner  farthest  from  the 
table  squatted,  on  the  mosaic  floor,  a  life-size  figure  of 
the  belly-god.  He  wore  many  very  valuable  rings,  an 
unctuous  smirk,  a  wreath — about  his  shoulders — of  fresh 
flowers,  and  very  little  else.  He  was  fleshed  of  priceless 
majolica,  but  his  figure  would  have  been  the  despair  of 


12  MR.  WU 

the  most  ingenious  corset  shop  in  Paris;  his  abdomen 
protruded  several  feet  in  front  of  his  knees;  his  was  a 
masterly  embonpoint  of  glut. 

There  must  have  been  a  hundred  big  joss-sticks  burn 
ing  in  the  room — not  the  poor,  slight  things  sold  in 
Europe,  but  Chinese  incense  at  its  best  and  most  pungent. 

The  mandarin  used  chop-sticks.  The  boy  and  his 
tutor  ate  with  silver  forks. 

The  food  was  delicious,  and  Muir  ate  heartily.  But 
the  child  and  the  old  man  ate  little.  Both  were  sick  at 
heart.  Five  of  the  mandarin's  concubines  brought  in 
fruit  and  sweetmeats.  The  boy  took  a  glace  persimmon, 
and  smiled  at  the  woman.  He  knew  them  all  by  name 
(there  were  a  score  or  more  in  the  "fragrant  apart 
ments"),  and  he  liked  most  of  them  and  often  played 
with  them.  The  mandarin  paid  no  heed  to  them  what 
ever.  Such  of  their  names  as  he  had  once  known  he  had 
quite  forgotten.  The  old  celibate  lived  for  China  and 
for  his  grandson.  But  he  kept  his  Chinese  state  in 
China,  and  always  would.  And  his  women  were  well 
clad,  well  fed,  well  treated  and  reasonably  happy.  And 
if  one  of  them  died  she  was  replaced,  and  so  was  one  that 
took  the  smallpox  and  was  disfigured.  But  one  was 
rarely  scolded,  and  never  was  one  beaten.  Wu  Ching 
Yu  rarely  remembered  their  existence.  When  he  did  it 
bored  him.  But  they  were  part  of  his  retinue,  and  it  no 
more  occurs  to  an  important  Chinese  to  discard  his 
retinue  than  it  does  to  a  portly  and  decent  Scot  to  dis 
card  his  kilt  in  broad  daylight  on  Princes  Street.  The 
one  discard  would  be  as  indecent  as  the  other.  Manners 
make  men  everywhere,  and  they  have  no  small  share  in 
making  manhood,  in  China  as  in  Edinburgh.  They  dif 
fer  in  different  districts,  but,  after  all,  their  difference 


AT  RICE  13 

is  but  of  thinskin  depth.    It  is  their  observance  that 
matters:  it  is  vital. 

A  great  snake  waddled  in  and  came  across  the  floor 
— a  fat,  over-fed,  hideous  thing.  Muir  knew  the  creature 
well,  and  that  it  was  perfectly  tame  and  harmless,  but, 
for  all  that,  he  tucked  his  feet  between  the  rungs  of  his 
chair.  Little  Wu  flung  sweetmeats  and  bits  of  sugared 
fat  pork  to  the  monster,  and  presently  it  waddled  off 
again,  crawling  fatly,  and  curled  up  at  the  feet  of  the 
belly-god,  and  went  to  sleep  with  its  sleek,  slimy, 
wrinkled  head  under  the  lea  of  the  god's  wide  paunch. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  MARRIAGE  JOURNEY 

WU  LI  CHANG  enjoyed  his  wedding  very  much. 
He  enjoyed  all  of  it  (except  the  enforced  parting 
with  his  young  wife) — the  wonderful  journey  to  PeichL. 
hli,  brightened  by  anticipation;  the  more  wonderful  re 
turn  journey,  not  a  little  dulled  by  homesickness  for  his 
bride  and  by  the  near-drawing  of  his  voyage  to  Eng» 
land;  the  six  weeks'  stay  in  the  palace  of  the  Lis;  and 
most  of  all — decidedly  most  of  all — his  wife. 

He  would  have  been  ingratitude  itself  if  he  had  not 
enjoyed   his  visit  at  his   father-in-law's.    Never  went 
marriage  bells  more  happily.     Never  was  bridegroom 
more  warmly  welcomed  or  more  kindly  entertained.    The 
wedding  ceremonies  interested  him  intensely;  they  went 
without  a  hitch,  and  never  in  China  was  bridal  more 
gorgeous.     The  honeymoon  was  best  of  all — if  only  it 
might  have  been  longer! — and  had  but  one  jar.     (Most 
honeymoons — at  least  in  Europe — have  more.)     The  one 
in  Wu  Li  Chang's  and  Wu  Lu's  honeymoon  was  acute 
and  plaintive :  it  was  the  day  that  his  wife  had  the  colic 
and  wailed  bitterly.    Wu  Li  Chang  had  colic  too — in 
sympathy,  the  women  said,  but  James  Muir  suspected 
an    over-feed    of    stolen    bride-cake,    gray    and    soggy, 
stuffed  with   sugared  pork  fat  and  roasted  almonds. 
Probably  the  women  were  right,  for  Wu  Li  Chang  was 
not  a  gluttonous  boy,  and  he  had  eaten  sugared  pork  fat 
with  impunity  all  his  life;  but,  caused  no  matter  by 

14 


THE  MARRIAGE  JOURNEY  15 

what,  the  colic  was  real  enough,  and  Wu  Li  Chang 
could  have  wailed  too,  had  such  relief  been  permissible 
to  a  Chinese  gentleman. 

The  cavalcade  started  at  dawn  on  an  auspicious  day 
in  early  sprijig,  when  the  nut  trees  were  just  blushing 
into  bloom  and  the  heavy  buds  of  the  wistaria  forests 
were  showing  faint  hints  of  violet  on  their  lips.  The 
return  journey  was  made  when  the  short  summer  of 
Northern  and  North  Central  China  was  turning  towards 
autumn,  and  the  great  wistarias  creaked  in  the  wind 
and  flung  their  purple  splendor  across  the  bamboos 
and  the  varnish  trees,  and  the  green  baubles  of  the 
lychees  were  turning  pink  and  russet. 

The  marriage  ceremonial  took  quite  a  month,  for  the 
mandarins  would  skimp  it  of  nothing;  and  a  Chinese 
wedding  of  any  elegance  is  never  brief.  The  engage 
ment  had  been  unprecedentedly  brief — made  so  by  the 
exigencies  of  Wu  Ching  Yu's  plans — and  to  have  laid  on 
the  lady  the  further  slight  of  shabby  or  hurried  nuptials 
would  have  been  unthinkable,  and  most  possibly  would 
have  been  punished  by  three  generations  of  hunchbacked 
Wus. 

Mandarin  Wu  kept  his  own  soothsayer,  of  course,  and 
equally  of  course  that  psychic  had  pronounced  for  the 
brevity  of  the  engagement,  and  himself  had  selected 
the  day  of  the  bridegroom's  departure  and  the  marriage 
days.  His  commandments  had  synchronised  exactly 
with  his  patron's  desire.  The  mandarin's  wishes  and 
the  necromancer's  pronouncements  almost  invariably 
dovetailed  to  a  nicety;  and  when  they  did  not  the 
mandarin  took  upon  himself  the  role  of  leading  seer, 
and  then  changed  his  fortune-teller.  It  had  only  hap 
pened  once,  and  was  not  likely  to  happen  again.  Wu 
Ching  Yu  was  a  very  fine  clairvoyant  himself. 


16  MR.  WU 

The  prospective  parents-in-law  were  old  and  warm 
friends,  Wu  Li's  senior  by  thirty  years.  The  older 
mandarin  had  dreamed  a  dream  one  night,  just  a  year 
ago,  and  in  the  morning  had  sent  a  runner  to  Pekin  with 
a  letter  to  his  friend: 

"Thy  honorable  wife,  who  has  laid  at  thy  feet  so 
many  jeweled  sons,  will  bear  to  thy  matchless  house  a 
daughter  when  next  the  snow  lies  thick  upon  the  lower 
hills  of  Han-yang.  Thy  contemptible  friend  sues  to  thee 
for  that  matchless  maiden 's  incomparable  golden  hand  to 
be  bestowed  upon  his  worm  of  a  grandson  and  heir" — 
and  several  yards  more  to  the  same  effect,  beautifully 
written  on  fine  red  paper. 

The  offer  had  been  cordially  (but  with  Mongol  circum 
locution)  accepted.  The  match  was  desirable  in  every 
conceivable  way.  And  when  Li  Lu  was  born  she  was 
already  as  good  as  "wooed  and  married  and  a'  "  to  the 
young  Wu,  at  that  moment  teaching  James  Muir  a  new 
form  of  leap-frog. 

The  cavalcade  formed  at  daybreak,  and  Wu — both 
Wus — and  the  tutor  came  out  of  the  great  house's  only 
door,  mounted  their  horses,  and  the  journey  began. 
It  was  a  musical  start,  for  each  saddle-horse  wore  a  collar 
of  bells  that  the  pedestrians  might  be  warned  to  stand 
aside. 

The  palanquins  of  state  and  their  ornate  sedan  chairs 
were  carried  by  liveried  coolies  that  the  three  gentle 
men  might  travel  so  when  they  chose ;  and  those  provided 
for  Muir  were  as  splendid  as  those  for  the  mandarin 
and  little  Wu.  Teachers  are  treated  so  in  China  al 
ways,  though  not  always  are  they  paid  as  the  mandarin 
paid  Muir. 

The  presents  for  the  bride  were  packed  in  bales  and 
baskets — pei  tsz — of  scented  grass,  slung  by  plaited  bam- 


THE  MARRIAGE  JOURNEY  17 

boo  straps  from  the  shoulders  of  the  carrying  coolies. 
There  were  three  hundred  bales  in  all,  their  precious 
contents  of  silk  and  crepe  and  jade  and  gems,  of  spices 
and  porcelains  and  lacquers,  wrapped  in  invulnerable 
oiled  silk  of  finest  texture  and  impervious  to  the  sharpest 
rain.  There  were  silks  enough  to  clothe  Li  Lu  and  Li 
Lu's  daughters  forever,  and  the  materials  for  her  bridal 
robes  were  as  fine  as  the  Emperor's  bride  had  worn. 

There  were  five  hundred  bride's  cakes,  sodden  gray 
things,  quite  small  in  size  but  heavy  with  fat  pork. 
There  were  sixty  tiny  pipes — all  for  the  bride — of  every 
conceivable  pipe  material  and  design.  There  were  a 
hundred  pairs  of  shoes,  to  be  worn  a  few  years  hence 
when  her  feet  had  been  bound.  There  were  birds  to  sing 
to  her — living  birds  in  jeweled  cages,  and  birds  made  of 
gold,  of  coral  and  of  amber.  There  were  ivories  and 
rare  pottery  and  mirrors  of  burnished  steel.  There  were 
jades — such  as  Europe  has  not  yet  seen — bronzes  beyond 
price,  tea,  tortoiseshell  and  musk,  paint  for  her  face, 
and  a  bale  of  hair  ornaments.  There  were  a  score  of 
slave-girls — ten  for  her,  ten  for  her  mother.  In  a  great 
bottle-shaped  cage  of  rush  a  tame  tortoise  rode  at  ease. 
It  had  been  procured  from  Ceylon  at  great  expense  for  a 
maharajah's  children  in  Southern  India,  and  trained  to 
carry  them  on  its  back.  It  wore  jeweled  anklets  now, 
and  was  for  Li  Lu  when  she  should  be  old  enough  to 
straddle  it.  Wu  Li  Chang  had  tried  it,  and  he  said  that 
its  gait  was  good.  And  Muir  had  named  it  " Nizam." 
But  it  had  its  own  servants;  for  the  tortoise  is  one  of 
the  four  sacred  animals  in  China.  A  hundred  and  thirty 
musicians  followed  the  mandarin's  cooks  and  bakers — 
a  musician  for  each  instrument  of  Chinese  melody,  and 
for  many  two ;  ten  more  for  the  flutes,  four  for  the  harps, 
nine  for  the  bells,  and  a  dozen  for  trumpets,  drums  and 


i8  MR.  WU 

gongs — the  women  carried  in  chairs,  the  men  on  foot. 
There  was  much,  much  more,  and  at  long  last  the  man 
darin's  bannerman  brought  up  the  slow  rear. 

Beside  the  old  noble's  palfrey  a  servant  carried  his 
master's  favorite  linnet  in  its  cage. 

There  was  a  long  wait  at  the  temple,  some  yards  from 
the  house.  Wu  and  his  grandchild  went  in  to  make 
obeisance  and  to  worship  before  the  temple  tablets  of 
their  dead,  while  Muir  sat  outside  and  smoked  an  honest 
meerschaum  pipe  and  drank  scalding  tea. 

The  road  climbed  hillward,  and  soon  after  they  left 
the  temple  they  passed  a  magnificent  paifang.  The 
mandarin  bowed  to  it  reverently,  dismounted,  and  passed 
it  on  foot ;  and  so  did  the  child,  knowing  that  it  marked 
the  spot  where  his  grandfather's  mother  had  hanged 
herself — in  her  best  robes — at  her  husband's  funeral. 

On  the  summit  of  the  first  hill  they  halted  again. 
The  old  man  and  the  boy  took  soup  and  sweetmeats  and 
tea,  and  Muir  munched  fishcakes  and  savory  rice;  and 
the  child  looked  long  at  the  house  in  which  he  had  been 
born. 

The  carved  screen,  standing  a  few  feet  before  the  door 
to  keep  the  evil  spirits  out,  was  dyed  deep  with  sunlight, 
and  its  peaked  roof's  green  and  blue  and  yellow  tiles 
were  darkly  iridescent,  as  were  the  green  and  yellow  and 
blue  tiles  of  the  old  dwelling's  many  tent-shaped  roofs. 

When  they  moved  on,  the  boy  trotted  on  foot  beside 
his  grandfather  and  twittered  to  the  linnet,  and  the  lin 
net  twittered  back;  the  mandarin  smiled  down  at  them, 
and  Muir  lit  another  pipeful. 

All  this  was  most  irregular — so  irregular  that  only  a 
"Wu  could  have  compassed  it.  The  bride  should  have 
been  coming  to  her  husband,  not  the  bridegroom  going  to 
his  wife.  But  Wu  and  the  necromancer  had  managed  it. 


THE  MARRIAGE  JOURNEY  19 

Wu  was  an  iconoclast — China  is  full  of  iconoclasts. 
Moreover,  it  was  scarcely  feasible  to  bring  so  young  a 
bride  across  China  in  the  early  spring — treacherous  often 
and  uncertain  always.  And  Mrs.  Li,  who  was  not  well 
and  who  hated  travel,  had  insisted  upon  conducting  the 
details  of  the  wedding  herself.  That  clinched  it.  Mrs. 
Li  ruled  her  husband.  It  is  so  in  China  oftener  than  it 
is  in  Europe. 

It  would  be  delightful  to  chronicle  every  hour  of  that 
marriage  journey  and  of  the  splendid  festivity  that 
closed  it.  But  this  is  the  history  of  an  incident  in  Wu 
Li  Chang's  maturity,  and  the  boyhood  that  was  father 
to  that  manhood  must  be  hinted  in  few,  swift  syl- 
lab^s. 

They  traveled  as  in  some  highly  colored  royal  progress. 
Now  and  again  they  passed  an  inn.  But  they  stopped 
at  none.  They  squatted  by  the  roadside  for  "rice" 
whenever  they  would,  and  they  fared  sumptuously  every 
day.  There  was  whisky  and  mutton  for  the  Scot,  and 
any  number  of  other  things  that  he  liked  almost  as 
well.  When  it  rained — and  in  the  month  it  took  them 
to  reach  Pekin  it  rained  in  angry  torrents  four  or  five 
times — they  stretched  out  in  their  padded  palanquins 
and  slept.  Each  night  they  rested  in  comfortable  bam 
boo  huts  that  relays  of  the  mandarin's  servants  had 
erected  in  advance;  and  when  they  had  eaten  and  had 
wearied  of  chess,  the  musicians  sat  outside  and  tinkled 
them  to  sleep,  and  often  the  crickets  joined  in  the  throb 
bing  music — and  sometimes  the  pet  linnet  too. 

Because  they  traveled  in  such  state,  the  peasants, 
with  which  many  of  the  districts  through  which  they 
passed  teemed,  never  pressed  near  them.  But  in  the 
wildest  parts  there  were  a  hundred  evidences  of  human 
life  and  industries.  Tiny  homesteads  jutted  from  the 


20  MR.  WU 

rocks,  perched  on  the  crags,  hung  beside  the  waterfalls. 
Wood-cutters,  grass-cutters,  charcoal-burners  passed 
them  hourly  and  made  obeisant  way  for  the  shen-shih 
or  sash-wearers,  as  the  Chinese  term  their  gentry.  On 
every  sandstone  precipice  some  great  god  was  carved 
— Buddha  usually — or  a  devout  inscription  cut  in 
gigantic  letters — gilded,  as  a  rule.  Each  day  they  passed 
some  old  temple,  ruined  or  spruce  and  splendid;  some 
days  they  passed  a  score;  and  nearing  or  leaving  each 
temple  was  its  inevitable  stream  of  pilgrims  with  yellow 
incense  bags  slung  across  their  shoulders — for  Buddha 
shares  the  imperial  yellow  in  Northern  China.  Each 
pilgrim  cried  out  "Teh  fu" — acquire  bliss — or  "Teh 
lieo  fuh" — we  have  acquired  bliss — and  to  them  all  the 
mandarin  sent  cash  and  rice  or  doles  of  cowry  shells, 
and  sometimes  bowls  of  liangkao,  the  delicious  rice-flour 
blancmange,  colder  than  ice  and  more  sustaining  than 
beef-tea,  or  plates  of  bean-curd,  the  staff  of  Chinese 
coolie  life. 

They  passed  through  groves  of  tallow  trees,  winged 
willow,  hoangko,  walnut,  acacia,  poplar,  camellia  and 
bamboo;  through  miles  of  brilliant  fire-weed,  arbutus, 
peanut  and  golden  millet;  through  jungles  of  loquat, 
yellow  lily  and  strawberry. 

Everywhere  there  was  running  water,  jade-green  or 
musk-yellow  or  frothing  white:  water  clear  and  un 
polluted  always,  for  in  Asia  it  is  a  crime  to  befoul  or 
misuse  water. 

When  the  short  twilight  died  into  the  dark,  from 
every  temple  or  hut,  by  path  or  on  hill,  glints  of  lamp 
radiance  sprang  into  the  night,  and  lamps  glowed  along 
the  river  banks;  from  every  traveler's  hand  a  jocund 
silk  or  paper  lantern  danced,  and  everywhere  the  kwang 


THE  MARRIAGE  JOURNEY  21 

yin  teng — "lamps  of  mercy"  the  Chinese  name  these 
will-o'-the-wisps — darted  and  burned. 

The  days  were  golden,  and  the  nights  smelt  sweet. 

And  from  then  Muir  had  but  one  quarrel  with  China : 
it  had  made  Japan  seem  to  him  forever  commonplace. 

James  Muir  had  never  enjoyed  himself  so  intensely 
before:  every  moment  was  a  picture  and  a  feast.  And 
often  now,  sitting  alone  in  London,  he  closes  his  book- 
tired  eyes  and  dreams  that  he  is  back  once  more  in 
China,  crossing  the  Sze-chuan  hills  with  a  mandarin  he 
admired  and  a  boy  he  loved,  or  sipping  hot  perfumed 
wine  at  the  indescribable  kaleidoscope  that  was  the  mar 
riage  of  "Wu  Li  Chang  and  Li  Lu,  and  thinking  some 
times,  not  without  a  sigh,  of  all  he  relinquished  when 
the  great  boat  on  which  "Wu  Li  Chang  went  to  England 
took  him — the  tutor — as  he  well  knew,  forever  from 
China. 


CHAPTER  IV 
WEE  MRS.  Wu 

IT  was  love  at  first  sight.     The  bride  crowed  at  the 
bridegroom,  and  he  forgot  his  grave  new  dignity  and 
his  ceremonial  mandarin  robes,  and  clapped  his  little 
yellow  hands  and  danced  with  delight. 

The  bride's  part  might  have  been  performed  by  proxy, 
and  there  had  been  some  talk  of  this,  Mrs.  Li  volunteer 
ing  for  the  vicarious  role.  But  Wu  Li  Chang's  lip  had 
quivered  mutinously,  and  so  the  suggestion  had  gone  no 
farther. 

All  was  performed  punctiliously — or  nearly  all.  One 
"essential"  had  been  discarded  perforce.  The  baby 
bride  had  torn  off  her  red  veil  and  screamed  her  refusal 
to  wear  it.  So  Wu  Li  Chang  had  seen  his  betrothed 'y 
face  some  hours  before  he  should.  It  was  a  brazen 
bride,  but  very  bonnie.  She  wore  less  paint  than  an 
older  bride  would  have  worn,  for  Mrs.  Li  feared  for  the 
new,  tender  skin.  Li  Lu  was  a  gleeful  bride.  The 
feigned  reluctance  and  the  daughterly  wailing  had  to  be 
omitted  with  the  veil.  She  played  with  the  strings  of 
bright  beads  that  hung  over  her  from  the  bridal  crown, 
and  peeped  through  them  giggling  at  her  bridegroom. 
She  laughed  when  their  wrists  were  tied  together  with 
the  crimson  cord.  Wu  Li  Chang  thought  the  hot  mar 
riage  wine  less  nice  than  that  he  usually  drank  at  home ; 
but  when  a  few  drops  from  his  cup  were  poured  upon 
her  mouth  she  sucked  her  lips  eagerly  and  pursed  them 
up  for  more. 

22 


WEE  MRS.  WU  23 

Even  Muir,  who  had  small  flair  for  babies,  thought 
this  one  very  pretty.  She  was  as  fat  as  butter,  but  not 
nearly  as  yellow  as  Devon  butter  is  when  creamed  from 
kine  that  feed  on  buttercups  and  clover  there.  Her 
tints  were  more  the  color  of  a  pale  tea-rose.  She  had 
bewitching  dimples  and  the  exquisitely  lovely  eyes  which 
are  a  Chinese  birthright.  And  her  grandfather-in-law 
thought  that  she  would  be  surpassingly  lovely  as  a 
woman;  for  Mrs.  Li,  whom  he  saw  now  for  the  first 
time,  was  as  beautiful  as  any  woman  he  had  ever  seen, 
and  his  proud  old  heart  was  much  content,  for  he  knew 
well  how  a  wife's  beauty  comforts  her  husband's  years. 

She  was  married  on  a  dai's,  of  course,  but  instead  of 
sitting — as 'she  should  have  done — on  a  chair  of  state, 
she  was  tied  upright  in  her  cradle,  the  perpendicular 
bamboo  cradle  of  Chinese  babyhood,  very  much  the  size 
and  exactly  the  shape  of  the  huge  tins  in  which  farmers 
send  milk  to  London — to  be  seen  in  their  hundreds  any 
morning  at  Victoria  or  Paddington. 

When  the  last  of  the  hundred  rites  was  over,  Li 
lifted  up  the  mite  to  carry  her  to  her  own  room;  but 
she  stretched  out  her  arms  to  little  Wu  in  unmistakable 
desire,  and  he  sprang  to  her  and  gathered  her  into  his 
arms  and  carried  her  himself  up  to  her  nursery  and  her 
women :  the  happiest  and  the  proudest  bridegroom  that 
ever  was — and  the  mandarins  almost  chuckled  with  de 
light  and  the  Scot  felt  oddly  queer. 

After  that  the  boy  was  free  of  the  women's  quarters 
(the  fragrant  apartments)  in  the  inner  court.  He  had 
many  a  good  game  of  battledore  and  of  kites  in  the 
spacious  grounds  and  in  the  courtyards  with  his  wife's 
brothers — she  had  six,  and  they  were  all  very  kind  to 
him;  but  most  of  his  time  he  spent  squatted  on  the 
polished  cherry-wood  floor  of  her  room,  nursing  the  babe. 


24  MR.  WU 

He  liked  that  best  of  all.  She  was  a  placid  mite,  but  she 
seemed  to  like  his  arms,  that  never  tired  of  her,  almost 
as  much  as  they  loved  nesting  her  so — and  she  slept 
longest  or,  waking,  smiled  sunniest  when  they  encradled 
her.  Even  the  day  the  foul  fiend  colic  came  and  cank^ 
ered  them  both,  she  seemed  less  tortured  in  his  holding, 
and  it  was  he  who  soothed  her  first. 

And  so  they  spent  their  spotless  honeymoon.  And 
much  of  it  they  spent  alone.  Her  amah  watched  them 
from  the  balcony  where  she  sat  sewing,  and  Li 's  prettiest 
concubine  tottered  in  now  and  then  on  her  tiny  feet, 
sent  by  Mrs.  Li  to  see  that  all  was  well.  But  amah 
and  concubine  counted  scarcely  as  more  than  useful, 
necessary  yamer  furniture  to  the  boy,  and  were  no  in 
trusion. 

No  man  of  his  rank  in  all  China  had  more  or  comelier 
concubines  than  Li,  and  none  concubines  that  were  finer 
dressed.  Mrs.  Li  saw  to  that.  She  was  a  strict  and 
punctilious  stickler  in  such  things.  Her  lord  had  grum 
bled  sometimes  at  the  expensiveness  of  "so  many  dolls" 
— for  he  was  thrifty — and  once  he  had  flatly  refused 
another  semi-matrimonial  plunge.  But  Mrs.  Li  had  lost 
her  temper  then,  called  him  bad  things,  and  smacked  him 
with  her  fan,  and  after  that  he  had  let  her  be,  and  she 
had  enlarged  his  string  of  handmaidens  as  she  chose, 
and  he  had  paid  for  them;  for  he  loved  his  wife,  and 
feared  her  too,  and  she  had  borne  him  six  strong  sons. 
But  he  saw  to  it  that  all  the  concubines  served  her  well. 
In  English  (and  in  the  other  tongues  of  Europe)  more 
exquisitely  ignorant  nonsense  has  been  written  about 
China  than  about  any  other  subject,  and  far  the  silliest 
and  crassest  of  it  all  about  the  facts  of  Chinese  woman 
hood. 

Mrs.  Li  did  not  neglect  her  baby,  and  she  was  too 


WEE  MRS.  WU  25 

good  a  mother  and  too  proud  not  to  nurse  the  little  girl 
herself,  and  she  toddled  into  the  nursery  as  often  as  the 
hour-glass  was  turned  thrice,  coming  in  slowly,  leaning 
on  an  attendant's  arm  because  her  own  feet  were  so 
very  small  and  useless.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  could 
move  about  quickly  enough,  and  run  too  (as  many  of  the 
small-footed  women  can),  so  skillfully  had  her  "golden 
lilies"  been  bound.  But  she  did  it  privately  only  or 
when  she  forgot.  It  was  not  a  fashionable  thing  to  do. 

She  nursed  little  Mrs.  Wu,  but  she  did  not  linger  in 
the  baby's  room  overmuch.  The  mother  of  six  sons  was 
not  inordinately  proud  of  a  daughter's  arrival,  although 
the  great  marriage  had  gilded  it  considerably.  And 
she  was  greatly  occupied  in  playing  hostess  to  her  hus 
band's  older  guest.  It  is  not  etiquette  for  a  Chinese 
lady  to  chat  with  men  friends  or  to  flutter  about  her 
husband's  home  beyond  the  female  apartments,  but  a 
great  many  Chinese  ladies  do — ladies  in  most  things  as 
canonical  sticklers  as  Mrs.  Li.  Of  course  she  never  went 
beyond  her  home  gates  except  in  the  seclusion  of  her 
closed  chair.  The  Emperor  himself  would  as  soon  have 
thought  of  showing  his  face  freely  on  the  Pekin  streets. 

So  the  boy  and  the  baby  were  practically  alone  much 
of  the  time.  He  sat  and  crooned  to  her  and  rocked  her 
in  his  arms,  and  she  crooned  to  him  and  grew  fast  into 
his  warm  young  heart.  And  each  week  passed  in  added 
delight. 

But  they  passed !  Wu  the  mandarin  had  much  busi 
ness  in  Pekin,  aside  from  the  paramount  marriage  busi 
ness  that  had  brought  him  so  far;  he  had  not  been  in 
Pekin  for  years  till  now,  although  his  official  yamen 
was  still  here,  and  much  of  his  revenue.  The  yamen 
was  a  bleak,  empty  place  that  he  had  never  used  as 
''home,"  and  now  given  up  to  compradores  and  other 


26  MR.  WU 

underlings.  He  visited  it  daily  after  the  wedding  had 
been  completed,  and  well  scrutinized  his  deputies'  ac 
counts  and  doings.  It  took  time.  Nothing  is  hurried 
in  China  except  the  waterfalls.  But  Lord  Wu's  Pekin 
business  was  done  at  last,  and  he  took  his  elaborate 
farewells  of  the  Lis,  and  turned  towards  home,  taking 
Wu  Li  Chang  reluctant  with  him. 

The  boy  had  asked  to  take  the  baby  too,  even  ventur< 
ing  to  urge  that  she  belonged  to  them  now.  (And  to 
Muir  he  confided  in  an  unreticent  moment  that  he'd 
dearly  like  to  include  her  in  the  ill-anticipated  trip  to 
England.) 

The  grandfather  agreed  that  she  was  indeed  theirs 
now.  Of  course  she  was.  A  Chinese  wife  is  the  prop 
erty  of  her  husband's  patriarch.  That  is  alphabetic 
Chinese  fact.  But  they  would  lend  her  to  the  Lis  until 
her  husband  returned  from  Europe.  The  boy  grieved 
secretly  and  at  heart  rebelled,  but  outwardly  he  was 
smiling  and  calm,  made  the  thrice  obeisance  of  respect 
and  fealty,  saying,  "Thy  honorable  will  is  good,  and 
shall  by  me,  thy  worthless  slave,  be  gladly  done,"  took 
a  stolid  (but  inwardly  convulsive)  leave  of  Mrs.  Wu, 
fast  asleep  on  her  crimson  cushion,  and  turned  his  slow 
feet  heavily  toward  his  homing  palanquin. 


CHAPTER  V 
HOMING 

BUT  the  homeward  journey  was  even  more  delightful 
than  the  journey  coming  had  been.     The  mandarin 
was  very  good  to  the  boy,  even  a  little  kinder  than  his 
wont,  watching  him  narrowly  with  a  gentle  smile  glint 
ing  in  the  narrow  old  eyes. 

The  air-  was  pungent  with  the  smells  of  coming 
autumn.  In  the  wayside  orchards  the  trees  bent  with 
ripening  fruit  and  were  heavy  with  thick  harvest  of 
glistening  and  prickly-sheathed  nuts. 

There  were  still  strawberries  for  the  gathering,  and 
the  raspberries  and  blackberries  were  ripe.  The  way 
side  was  flushed  with  great  waxen  pink  begonia  flowers 
and  fringed  by  a  thousand  ferns.  The  air  was  sweet  and 
succulent  for  miles  from  the  blossoms  of  the  orange  trees, 
and  on  the  same  trees  the  great  gold  globes  hung  ripe. 
And  the  feathery  bamboo  was  everywhere — the  fairest 
thing  that  grows  in  Asia. 

They  passed  groups  of  girls  gathering  the  precious 
deposit  of  insect  wax  off  the  camellia  trees — blue-clad, 
sunburnt  girls,  singing  as  they  worked. 

Once — for  a  great  lark,  and  just  to  see  what  such 
common  places  were  really  like — Wu  Li  Chang  and  Muir 
had  tea  at  an  inn,  a  three-roofed  peaked  thing  built 
astride  the  road.  The  mandarin  did  not  join  them,  but 
stayed  to  pray  at  a  wayside  shrine  dedicated  to  Lingwun 
— the  soul. 

27 


28  MR.  WU 

One  day  the  three  friends  (for  they  were  deeply  that) 
saw  the  great  Sie'tu,  the  Buddhist  thanksgiving-to-the- 
earth  service,  in  a  great  straggling  monastery  that 
twisted  about  a  mountain's  snowcovered  crest,  and 
blinked  and  twinkled  like  some  monster  thing  of  life  and 
electricity,  for  its  dozen  tent-shaped,  curling  roofs  were 
of  beaten  brass. 

The  Scot  got  a  deal  of  human  sight-seeing  out  of 
that  return  journeying.  But  it  was  its  silent  pictures 
and  its  wide  solitudes  that  the  boy,  child  though  he  was, 
liked  best.  They  moved  on  homewards  through  a  puls 
ing  sea  of  flowers  and  fruit  and  ripening  grain,  of  song 
and  light  and  warmth  and  vivid  color,  but  above  them 
towered  the  everlasting  hills,  imperial  as  China  herself, 
white,  cold,  snow-wrapped. 

The  soul  of  China  pulsed  and  flushed  at  their  feet; 
the  soul  of  China  watched  them  from  her  far  height: 
China,  Titan,  mighty,  insolent,  older  than  history; 
China,  lovely,  laughing,  coquetting  with  her  babbling 
brooks,  playing — like  the  child  she  is — with  her  little 
wild  flowers. 

There  was  a  tang  of  autumn  in  the  air,  and  the  cherries 
were  growing  very  ripe. 

Often  at  night  they  lit  a  fire  of  brush  beside  their 
wayside  camp,  and  sitting  in  its  glow  the  old  man  talked 
long  and  earnestly  to  the  child.  To  much  of  their  talk 
Muir  listened,  smoking  his  sweet  cob  in  silence.  Some  of 
it  was  intimate  even  from  his  trusted  hearing.  Nothing 
was  said  of  the  voyage  to  England  or  of  the  years  to  be 
lived  out  there.  It  had  been  said  for  the  most  already, 
and  almost  the  subject  was  taboo.  But  of  the  home 
coming  to  follow  and  the  long  years  to  be  lived  at  home 
the  old  man  said  much.  And  most  of  all  he  talked  to 
the  boy  of — women.  Again  and  again  he  told  him,  a3 


HOMING  29 

he  often  had  even  from  his  cradle-days,  of  the  women  of 
their  clan.  There  are  several  great  families  in  China 
noted  above  all  else  for  their  women,  and  the  Wu  family 
was  the  most  notable  of  all. 

Most  of  the  ladies  Wu  had  been  beautiful.  Many  of 
them  had  been  great,  wise,  gifted,  scholarly.  Their 
paifangs  speckled  the  home  provinces.  One  had  been 
espoused  by  an  Emperor  and  had  borne  his  more  illus 
trious  Emperor-son.  All  had  been  virtuous.  All  had 
been  loved  and  obeyed.  To  treat  their  women  well  was 
an  instinct  with  the  "Wus ;  to  be  proud  of  them  an  inheri 
tance  and  a  tradition. 

Wu  Li  Chang  just  remembered  his  own  mother,  and 
his  father's  grief  at  her  death.  The  father  had  died  be 
fore  he  had  laid  aside  the  coarse  white  hempen  garments 
of  grief  that  he  had  worn  for  her.  The  epidemic  of 
smallpox  that  had  pitted  the  mandarin's  face  for  a  sec 
ond  time  had  killed  the  only  son — the  father  of  this  one 
child. 

A  great-great-aunt  of  the  mandarin 's  had  been  a  noted 
mathematician.  Another  ancestress  had  invented  an  as 
tronomical  instrument  still  used  in  the  great  observatory 
at  Pekin.  On  the  distaff  side  the  old  man  and  the  boy 
could  prove  descent  from  both  the  two  great  sages — 
descent  in  the  male  line  from  whom  alone  gives  heredi 
tary  and  titled  nobility  in  China,  except  in  such  rare, 
Emperor-bestowed  instances  as  that  of  Prince  Kung. 
Wu  Ching  Yu  and  Wu  Li  Chang  were  descended 
through  their  mothers  from  Confucius  and  from  Mencius. 
One  foremother  of  theirs  had  written  a  book  that  still 
ranked  high  in  Chinese  classics,  and  one  had  worn  the 
smallest  shoes  in  all  the  eighteen  provinces. 

They  had  cause  to  be  proud  of  their  women,  and  to 
boast  it  intimately  from  generation  to  generation. 


3o  MR.  WU 

Li — perhaps  in  compliment  for  the  tortoise — had  given 
his  son-in-law  a  tame  trained  bear  and  a  skilled  juggler, 
and  Mrs.  Li  had  presented  Wu  Ching  Yu  with  two  of 
her  husband's  choicest  concubines.  The  older  mandarin 
had  graciously  appointed  them  attendants  upon  his 
granddaughter  and  to  stay  with  her  in  Pekin.  But  the 
bear  and  the  juggler  were  traveling  with  the  home- 
returning  Wus;  and  when  the  inevitable  chess-board 
and  its  jeweled  chessmen  and  the  flagons  of  hot  spiced 
wine  were  laid  between  Muir  and  the  mandarin,  Bruin 
— Kung  Fo  Lo  was  his  name — danced  and  pranced  in 
the  firelight  for  the  boy,  who  clapped  his  hands  and  shook 
with  laughter;  the  heart  of  a  man-child  cannot  be  for 
ever  sad  for  a  baby-girl,  known  but  two  months  and  not 
able  to  crawl  yet.  But  Wu  Li  Chang  did  not  forget 
Wu  Lu.  He  often  wished  that  she  might  have  come 
with  them.  He  'd  willingly  have  traded  the  dancing  bear 
for  her,  with  the  juggler  thrown  in  (he  had  two  better 
jugglers  at  home) ;  and  for  permission  to  forego  the 
journey  to  Europe  he  would  have  given  everything  he 
had:  his  favorite  Kweichow  pony  (a  dwarfed  survival 
from  the  fleet  white  Arabs  that  the  Turkish  horde  of 
Genghis  Khan  brought  into  China),  his  best  robes,  the 
little  gold  pagoda  that  was  his  very  own,  everything 
except  his  cue,  his  ancestral  tablets,  and  his  grand 
father's  love  and  approval — yes,  everything,  even  his 
wife. 


CHAPTER  VI 
HEART  ACHE 

BUT  it  was  summer  again  before  he  went.  The  man 
darin  was  taken  ill  soon  on  their  home-coming,  and 
all  through  the  cold  northern  winter  only  just  lived. 
Death  means  little  to  the  Chinese,  but  somehow,  for  all 
his  relentlessness  of  purpose,  for  all  his  iron  of  will,  the 
old  man  could  not  bring  himself  to  part  with  the  child 
while  his  megrim  was  sharp.  With  spring  he  grew  bet 
ter,  and  when  the  great  tassels  of  the  wistaria  were 
plump  and  deeply  purpled  he  sent  the  boy  with  his  tutor 
to  Hong  Kong. 

They  took  their  parting  in  a  room  in  which  they  had 
passed  much  of  their  close  and  pleasant  companionship. 
James  Muir  understood  that  the  old  man  avoided,  both 
for  himself  and  the  lad,  the  strain  of  the  parting,  long 
drawn  out,  that  the  cross-country  journey  must  have 
been.  And  Muir  suspected  also  that  the  mandarin  did 
not  dare  the  bodily  fatigue  of  such  a  journey,  no  matter 
how  easily  and  luxuriously  taken. 

Muir  was  right.  But  chiefly,  Wu  chose  to  say  good-by 
in  their  home — the  home  that  had  been  theirs  for  genera 
tions  and  for  centuries. 

Except  a  few  pagodas  there  is  not  an  old  building  in 
China.  The  picturesque  houses,  with  their  pavilions  and 
their  triple  roofs,  flower-pot  hung,  curling  and  multi 
colored,  spring  up  like  mushrooms,  and  decay  as  soon. 
Houses  last  a  few  generations — perhaps.  Great  cities 

31 


32  MR.  WU 

crumble,  disappear,  and  every  trace  of  them  is  obliterated 
in  a  brief  century  or  two.  The  Chinese  rebuild,  or  move 
on  and  build  elsewhere,  but  they  do  not  repair.  Their 
style  and  scheme  of  architecture  never  alter.  The  tent- 
like  roofs  (or  ship-prow  survivals — have  it  as  you  will, 
for  no  one  knows),  painted  as  gayly  as  the  roofs  of  Mos 
cow,  make  all  China  tuliptinted,  and  looking  from  a 
hillside  at  a  Chinese  city  is  often  oddly  like  looking 
down  upon  the  Kremlin.  It  is  very  beautiful,  and  it 
looks  old.  But  unlike  the  Muscovite  city,  it  is  all  new. 

But  this  house  of  "Wu,  where  both  the  old  man  and 
his  grandson  had  been  born,  was  far  older  than  a  house 
in  China  often  is.  The  Wus  were  a  tenacious  race,  even 
in  much  that  their  countrymen  usually  let  slide;  and 
here,  in  these  same  buildings,  or  in  others  built  on  the 
same  site,  the  "Wus  had  made  their  stronghold  and  kept 
their  state  since  before  the  great  Venetian  came  to  China 
to  learn  and  to  report  her  and  her  cause  aright. 

And  it  was  because  of  this,  far  more  than  because 
his  old  bones  ached  and  his  breath  cut  and  rasped  in 
his  side,  that  "Wu  Ching  Yu  chose  to  take  here  what 
must  be  a  long  and  might  well  be  a  last  farewell. 

The  actual  "good-by"  was  said  standing  beside  the 
costly  coffin  which  had  been  the  man 's  gift  from  his  wife 
the  year  their  son  was  born.  Wu  the  grandson  had 
played  beside  it  when  still  almost  a  baby.  He  knew 
its  significance,  its  great  value,  and  that  there  was  no 
finer  coffin  in  China.  The  precious  Shi-mu  wood,  from 
one  solid  piece  of  which  it  had  been  carved,  was  hidden 
beneath  layer  after  layer  of  priceless  lacquer  and  Kwei- 
chow  varnish,  both  inside  and  out.  And  little  Wu,  who 
knew  each  of  its  elaborate,  fantastic  details  as  well  as  if 
it  had  been  a  favorite  picture-book,  had  never  been 
able  to  determine  which  was  the  more  gorgeous — the 


HEART  ACHE  33 

vermilion  of  its  surface  or  the  gold  leaf  of  the  arabesque 
that  decorated  it. 

The  old  man  laid  one  thin  claw-hand  on  the  casket, 
the  bleached  and  taloned  other  on  the  young  shoulder. 
"I  hope  that  you  will  be  here  to  stretch  and  straighten 
me  in  it  at  my  ease  when  my  repose  comes,  and  I  take 
my  jade-like  sleep  in  this  matchless  Longevity  Wood. 
If  so,  or  if  not,  remember  always  that  you  are  Wu,  my 
grandson,  a  master  of  men,  the  son  and  the  father  of 
good  women,  and  a  Chinese.  You  have  always  pleased 
me  well.  Now  go." 

The  boy  prostrated  himself  and  laid  his  forehead  on 
the  old  man's  foot.  The  old  man  bent  and  blessed  him. 
The  child  -rose. 

"Go!" 

Without  a  word,  without  a  look,  Wu  Li  Chang  went. 
And  James  Muir,  waiting  at  the  outer  door,  noticed  that 
not  once  did  the  child  look  back — not  when  they  came 
round  the  devil-protection  screen,  not  when  they  passed 
the  ancestral  graves,  not  when  they  went  beneath  his 
great-grandmother's  memorial  arch,  not  when  they 
crested  the  hill — nowhere,  not  at  all,  not  once.  He 
folded  his  hands  together  in  his  long  sleeves  and  went 
calmly,  with  his  head  held  high  and  with  a  sick  smile 
on  his  pale  face.  They  were  to  sail  from  Hong  Kong 
in  a  few  days,  but  that  was  a  small  thing:  this  was  his 
passing  from  China  and  from  childhood. 

And  as  they  passed  south,  bearing  east,  the  boy  said 
little.  He  neither  sulked  nor  grieved — or,  if  he  grieved, 
he  hid  it  well.  But  he  wrapped  himself  in  reticence  as 
in  a  thick  cloak. 

His  eyes  went  everywhere,  but  his  face  was  expres 
sionless  and  his  lips  motionless. 

Villages,  cities,  gorges,  lakes,  hills,  highways  and  by- 


34 


MR.  WU 


ways,  lie  regarded  them  all  gravely,  and  made  no  com 
ment.  Even  when  they  crossed  the  Yangtze-Kiang,  he 
looked  but  showed  no  interest.  And  when  at  last  Muir 
pointed  into  the  distance,  the  boy  just  smiled  a  cold 
perfunctory  smile,  and  bent  his  head  slightly  in  courtesy ; 
nor  did  he  display  a  warmer  interest  when  the  exquisite 
island  lay  close  before  them. 

The  old  rock  that  used  to  be  the  Chinese  pirates' 
stronghold  and  tall  look-out,  but  on  which  England  has 
now  built  Greater  Britain's  loveliest  holding — there  is 
no  lovelier  spot  on  earth — sparkled  in  the  hot  sunlight. 
The  bamboos  quivered  on  the  peak,  the  blue  bay  danced 
and  laughed.  The  sampans  pushed  and  crowded  in  the 
harbor,  the  rickshaws  rolled  and  ran  along  the  bund, 
Europe  and  Asia  jostled  each  other  on  the  streets  and 
on  the  boats. 

Muir  stood  on  the  ship's  white  deck  holding  Wu  Li 
Chang's  hand,  and  taking  a  long  last  look  at  the  city  of 
Victoria  and  at  the  old  island  it  threatened  to  over 
spread,  and  in  parts  did,  bulging  out  into  and  over  the 
sea.  His  thoughts  were  long  thoughts  too.  He  had  come 
to  Hong  Kong  little  more  than  a  boy,  academic  honors 
thick  upon  him,  but  life  all  untasted.  Few  Europeans 
had  seen  China  as  he  had,  and  almost  he  sickened  to 
leave  her.  He  was  going  home.  In  a  month  or  two  he 
would  see  his  mother,  who  was  very  much  to  him.  But 
China  quickened  and  pulled  at  his  heart.  He  knew  that 
he  would  not  forget  China. 

The  boat  slipped  slowly  off,  backing  like  a  courtier 
from  the  queenly  place.  And  the  man  and  the  boy  stood 
without  a  word  and  watched  the  unmatched  panorama 
dim  to  nothingness.  The  small  yellow  hand  lay  cold 
and  passive  in  the  big,  warm,  white  one.  Presently  Wu 


HEART  ACHE  35 

drew  his  palm  gently  from  his  friend's,  and  turned 
quietly  away  and  walked  to  the  saloon  stairs.  Muir 
turned  too,  and  watched  the  quaint,  gorgeous  figure  as  it 
went — so  pitifully  magnificent,  so  pathetically  lonely — 
but  did  not  follow.  He  understood  that  the  boy  wished 
to  be  alone.  And  he  himself  was  glad  to  be  alone  just 
then. 

Two  hours  later,  when  the  dressing  warning  went, 
he  found  his  charge  in  their  cabin.  Wu  had  no  wish 
for  dinner.  He  had  been  crying — almost  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life;  the  Chinese  rarely  weep — and  besides, 
he  was  very  sick.  Muir  dressed  without  speaking  much, 
and  when  dinner  was  served  mercifully  left  the  boy  to 
himself  and  his  pillows. 

Across  China  an  old  man  in  shabby  robes  left  his  rice 
untouched,  and  bowed  long  before  the  ancestral  tablets 
of  his  race. 

And  that  night  in  her  sleep  Wu  Li  Lu  gave  a  little 
cry;  she  had  cut  a  tooth. 


CHAPTEE  VII 
A  TORTURED  BOYHOOD 

ON  the  whole,  young  "Wu  enjoyed  the  voyage.  He 
liked  the  way  the  foreign  women  eyed  his  clothes; 
not  one  of  them  had  garments  half  so  fine.  He  liked 
the  motion  of  the  boat  when  once  he  had  mastered  it. 
There  were  snatches  of  absorbing  sightseeing  at  Colombo 
and  at  Malta.  And  in  those  days  one  had  to  change 
boats  between  Hong  Kong  and  Southampton.  He  had 
much  to  think  of  when  he  chose  to  sit  alone.  He  had 
Muir  to  talk  with  when  he  liked  to  talk.  And  the  cap 
tain,  on  whose  left  hand  he  sat  at  table  from  Hong 
Kong  to  Colombo,  was  friendly  without  patronage  and 
played  a  good  game  of  chess. 

And  by  some  strength  of  will  and  childhood 's  splendid 
resilience  he  had  thrown  off  (or  laid  away)  his  heart 
broken  apathy  with  his  sea-sickness.  He  enjoyed  the 
voyage,  on  the  whole. 

When  they  landed  at  Southampton  "Wu  thought  that 
he  had  found  Bedlam,  and  wondered,  as  he  had  not  done 
before,  why  his  grandfather  had  condemned  him  to  such 
hideous  exile.  Everything  he  saw  revolted  him.  He 
thought  that  nothing  could  be  uglier.  He  was  not  even 
interested.  The  very  novelty  had  no  charm.  His  little 
gorge  rose.  Europe — seen  so  and  so  sounding — was  a 
stench  in  his  nostrils  and  rank  offense  to  his  eyes.  He 
held  up  his  heavy  embroidered  satin  skirts  and  tucked 
them  about  him  close,  as  a  girl  in  Sunday-best  might 

36 


A  TORTURED  BOYHOOD  37 

pick  her  way  across  the  malodorous  street  slime  in  a  low 
and  squalid  neighborhood. 

It  was  late  afternoon,  and  as  they  were  not  expected 
%t  their  London  destination  until  the  next  morning, 
Muir  put  up  at  the  hotel  of  which  Southampton  was 
proudest.  Wu  was  measurably  accustomed  to  English 
food.  The  mandarin  had  seen  to  it.  Ana  on  the  liner 
the  young  Chinese,  eating  tit-bits  and  prime  cuts  from 
the  joints  at  the  captain's  table,  had  found  them  good. 
But  this  was  English  food  with  a  difference.  James 
Muir  was  not  a  selfish  man — far  from  it — but  he  ex 
ulted,  for  the  time  at  least,  at  being  at  home;  and  he 
ordered  a  truly  British  dinner  in  a  burst  of  patriotism 
(not  the  less  deep  because  its  expression  took  such  homely 
form),  forgetting  to  consult  the  boy's  tastes,  which  he 
knew  perfectly.  They  began  with  oxtail  soup  and 
finished  with  three  kinds  of  inferior  cheese  and  a  brew  of 
"small"  coffee  which  was  very  small  indeed.  Wu 
thought  it  would  have  been  an  unkindness  to  the  palate 
of  a  coolie.  And  in  the  big,  strange  bed  he  lay  awake 
half  the  night,  grieving  for  his  old  grandfather,  and  try 
ing  to  make  up  his  homesick  little  mind  which  was 
nastiest,  apple  tart  or  salt  beef  and  carrots,  and  wonder 
ing  why  the  gods  let  a  people  be  who  made  and  ate  such 
salad.  His  tutor  had  taken  two  helpings,  and  had 
praised  the  abominable  beef. 

The  train  frightened  him.  The  little  (first  class,  re 
served)  box  into  which  they  were  locked,  appalled  and 
then  offended.  Waterloo  was  purgatory.  The  hansom 
he  liked.  They  drove  to  Portland  Place,  and  Wu  went 
up  the  steps  with  dignified  eagerness.  This  he  knew, 
was  the  Chinese  Legation — the  London  yamen  of  a  dis 
tant  kinsman.  This  would  be  better — almost  something 
of  home.  They  expected  him  here.  But  it  was  not  bet- 


38  MR.  WU 

ter;  it  was  worse — a  purgatory  and  a  drab,  dull  one. 
Even  James  Muir  was  struck  that  the  hall  and  the  draw 
ing-room  had  been  subjected  to  unhappy  furnishing. 
And  instead  of  the  friendly  countryman  that  Wu  had 
expected  to  greet  him  at  the  threshold,  a  sleek  young 
English  attache,  with  oiled  yellow  hair  and  a  lisp,  came 
forward  leisurely,  saying,  "Oh,  it's  you.  Hello  then! 
Come  on  in."  A  Chinese  servant  opened  the  door  to 
them,  but  he  scarcely  seemed  real  to  the  disappointed 
lad,  and  there  was  nothing  else  in  the  least  Chinese  to 
be  seen. 

Why  the  Chinese  Legation  in  London  should  have 
been  furnished  from  the  Tottenham  Court  Road  passes 
respectful  understanding;  but  it  had.  It  was  magnifi 
cently  furnished.  It  had  been  done  completely  and  with 
no  stint  by  a  famous  firm.  Probably  that  firm  would 
have  done  the  work  less  crudely  if  it  had  been  left  to 
its  own  well-experienced  professional  devices.  But  it 
by  no  means  had.  The  youngest  attache — he  of  the 
fair,  sleek  locks — suffered  from  conscience.  He  sus 
pected  that  he  might  never  shine  at  international  diplo 
macy,  but  he  intended  to  do  what  he  could  to  earn  his 
"ripping"  emolument.  And  among  other  self-imposed 
activities  he  had  elected  to  direct  the  great  house  fur 
nishers  and  decorators.  The  red  and  yellow,  about 
equally  proportioned,  of  the  hall  and  the  reception- 
rooms  were  not  his  own  first  favorites.  A  nice  Cam 
bridge  blue  with  rose  trimmings  he'd  have  liked  better 
for  himself.  But  the  Chinese  Government  was  paying 
him,  and  he  meant  to  play  the  game  by  that  Imperial 
Body  of  an  imperial  people;  and  he  played  it  by  some 
hundreds  of  yards  of  red  silk  plush  and  bright  marigold- 
yellow  satin  that  he  considered  utterly  Chinese.  Wu 
thought  it  barbaric,  demoniac.  The  Chinese  Minister 


A  TORTURED  BOYHOOD  39 

saw  both  the  intended  kindness  and  the  joke,  and  en 
joyed  the  joke  very  much  indeed,  laughing  slyly  and 
good-naturedly  up  his  long,  dove-colored  crepe  sleeve. 

The  Minister  was  out,  the  attache  explained:  had 
had  to  go — "to  the  F.  O.,  don't  you  know?"-— Wu  had 
no  idea  what  "F.  O."  meant — "sorry  not  to  be  here. 
Back  soon,"  and  he  ushered  them  up  into  the  long, 
draped  and  padded  barrack  of  a  drawing-room,  and  said 
again,  "Hello!"  but  added  in  a  verbose  burst,  "I  say, 
sit  down." 

It  was  better  when  the  Minister  returned  at  last  from 
the  Foreign  Office.  And  after  lunch  he  took  "Wu  into  an 
inner  room  more  like  China,  less  like  Hades.  But  until 
he  died  "Wu  hated  the  Chinese  Legation  at  Portland 
Place.  And  he  stayed  there  for  five  years.  Then  he 
went  to  Oxford. 

London  he  never  learned  to  like.  There  was  no  reason 
why  he  should.  But  he  did  learn  to  like  the  country 
places  all  over  the  kingdom's  two  islands.  For  he  and 
Muir  traveled  together  at  Christmas  and  at  Easter  and 
in  the  summer. 

Muir  had  a  British  Museum  appointment — it  was 
waiting  for  him  when  they  landed.  But  his  hours  and 
his  duties  were  easy,  and  he  still  drew  his  larger  income 
from  the  coffers  of  the  mandarin  in  Sze-ehuan,  and  he 
gave  much  of  his  time  and  labor  to  his  old  pupil.  But 
for  the  Scot  and  a  few  of  the  Chinese  at  No.  49  the  exiled 
boy  might  have  gone  mad,  so  shaken  and  cramped  was 
he  by  homesickness.  But  they  were  an  enormous  help 
and  refuge.  He  worked  hard  and  learned  prodigiously, 
as  only  a  Chinese  can  learn.  And,  being  Chinese,  what 
he  once  learned  he  never  in  the  least  forgot. 

Oxford  he  liked  from  the  first.  Always  his  soul  ached 
for  China,  for  her  people  (his  people),  her  ways  and  her 


40  MR.  WU 

scenes:  the  smell  of  her,  the  sound  of  her,  the  heart 
and  soul  of  her  matching  to  his :  the  haze  of  her  peaceful 
atmosphere,  pricked  by  the  music  of  her  lutes,  and  throb 
bing  with  the  mystic  beat,  beat  of  the  tom-tom.  He 
thought  there  were  no  flowers  in  Europe,  no  repose,  no 
balance,  no  art,  no  friendship. 

But,  for  all  that,  Oxford  thrilled  him,  and  though  he 
counted  every  hour  that  brought  him  nearer  to  China, 
he  counted  them  not  a  little  good  in  themselves  because 
they  passed  by  the  Isis  and  in  the  classic  droning  of 
Oxford  days  and  ways. 

All  the  sunshme  seemed  to  find  him  in  Oxfordshire, 
all  the  shadow  at  Portland  Place. 

Small  things  rasped  him  at  the  Legation,  and  two 
heavy  trials — one  a  humiliation,  the  other  a  grief — found 
him  out  there.  A  few  months  after  his  arrival  they  cut 
his  cue  and  dressed  him  in  an  Eton  suit.  His  rage  and 
shame  were  terrible.  For  months  he  did  not  forgive 
it — if  he  ever  quite  did.  Child  as  he  was,  they  might 
not  have  encompassed  it  had  they  not  assured  him  that 
it  was  his  grandfather 's  will.  That  silenced  but  did  not 
console  him.  And  he  treated  his  new  garments  to  more 
than  one  paroxysm  of  ugly  rage.  Chinese  calm  is  as 
great  a  national  asset  as  any  of  the  many  assets  of  that 
wonderful  race.  Heart  disease  is  almost  unknown 
among  the  Chinese,  and  probably  they  owe  their  happy 
immunity  from  that  painful  scourge  to  their  own  placid 
ity  and  equable  behavior.  But  when  they  do  "boil 
over,"  as  they  do  at  times,  the  eruption  is  indescribable 
— they  foam  and  froth,  and  until  the  fit  (for  it  is  that) 
has  spent  itself  and  them  they  are  uncontrollable  and  be 
yond  all  self-control  or  semblance  of  it. 

Wu  did  not  mind  being  laughed  at  in  the  London 
streets   for   his    "pig-tail"    and   his   gold-embroidered 


A  TORTURED  BOYHOOD  41 

satins.  He  was  sincerely  indifferent  to  it.  When  Eng 
lish  urchins  called  after  him,  "Chin-chin  Chinaman, 
chop,  chop,  chop,"  he  did  not  care  a  whit.  Partly  this 
was  good-nature — for  he  was  good-natured  as  yet — and 
partly  it  was  vanity:  the  centuries-old  vanity  of  a  de 
scendant  of  an  interminable  mandarinate.  He  under 
stood  how  immeasurably  superior  he  was  to  those  who 
presumed  to  laugh  at  him — how  much  better  clad,  how 
much  better  bred — and  tolerated  them  and  their  peasant 
mirth  very  much  in  the  spirit  of  the  old  fellow  in  JEsop  's 
fable  who  scorned  to  resent  the  kicks  his  donkey  gave  him 
because  he  "considered  the  source,"  and  with,  too,  the 
quiet  pride  of  the  MacGregor  who,  when  his  acquaint 
ance  expressed  surprise  that  the  great  "Mac"  had  been 
seated  below  the  salt  at  some  feast,  asserted  with  bland 
arrogance,  "Where  MacGregor  sits  is  the  head  of  the 
table."  But  to  be  shorn  of  the  cue  and  stripped  of  the 
finery  at  which  the  canaille  jeered  maddened  him  and 
made  him  veiy  bitter. 

In  ten  years  the  Chinese  in  exile  made  many  acquaint 
ances,  but  only  one  friend.  Probably  he  niched  some 
profit,  some  equipment  for  his  years  to  come,  from  each 
of  the  acquaintances ;  but,  for  all  that,  he  found  most  of 
them  no  small  nuisance.  A  Mrs.  Cholmondeley-Piggot 
was  his  infliction  in  chief.  She  was  a  distant  connection 
of  the  blond  attache's  mother,  and  had  gone  to  school 
with  a  second  or  third  cousin  of  Sir  Halliday  Macartney. 
And  she  had  no  doubt  that  those  two  facts,  by  the 
strength  and  the  charm  of  their  union,  made  her  persona 
grata  at  the  Chinese  Legation.  She  called  there  at  the 
oddest  times,  and  dropped  in  to  lunch  uninvited;  and 
the  Chinese  Minister,  trained  from  his  birth  to  make 
great  and  chivalrous  allowance  for  the  vagaries  of 
women  and  of  lunatics,  would  not  permit  his  exasperated 


42  MR.  WU 

staff  to  cold-shoulder,  much  less  to  snub,  Mrs.  Cholmon- 
deley-Piggot.  And  so  she  came  to  Portland  Place  fre 
quently  and  unrebuked.  She  called  the  Minister  "my 
dear  Mandarin."  She  doted  on  China,  and  did  so  hope 
to  go  there  some  glad  day.  She  loved  the  Chinese,  poor 
dears.  And  once,  when  she  gave  a  dinner  party,  she 
borrowed  the  Legation  cook;  but  she  only  did  this  once. 
The  Minister  would  have  condoned  a  second  time,  but 
the  cook  would '  not.  Mrs.  Cholmondeley-Piggot  had 
called  him  ''John,"  and  asked  him  if  Chinese  children 
loved  their  mothers,  and'  the  kitchen-maid  had  taken  lib 
erties  with  his  cue. 

But  there  were  others  of  his  race — more  highly  born 
than  he — whom  this  lady  also  called  "John,"  among 
them  the  Minister's  private  secretary,  a  very  proud  and 
solemn  man  who  was  a  nobleman  by  inheritance — there 
are  a  few  in  China — and  who  often  longed  to  boil  the 
friendly  Englishwoman  alive  in  oil. 

She  took  Wu  to  her  heart  at  once ;  and,  what  was  far 
worse,  she  took  him  for  "a  nice  long  day"  in  Kew  Gar 
dens. 

That  awful  day!  And  she  meant  so  well!  At  first 
she  merely  bored  him.  Then  she  infuriated  him.  It 
was  scarcely  fair  to  ask  a  Chinese  boy  to  think  over 
much  of  Kew's  prized  Wistaria  sinensis — there  were 
miles  of  better  on  the  estate  at  home.  He  thought  the 
picture  of  the  House  of  Confucius  hanging  in  the 
Museum  an  impertinence — no  red  scroll  of  honor  above 
it,  no  joss-stick  burning  in  homage  beneath  it.  The 
Chambers  imitation  of  a  pagoda  was  to  him  even  more 
unpardonable.  What  right  had  this  English  tea-garden 
sort  of  place  with  a  shabby  mockery  of  a  sacred  thing  of 
China  ?  And  the  bamboos  and  the  golden-leaf  flowers  of 
the  hamamelis  and  the  fragrant  cream  blossoms  of  the 


A  TORTURED  BOYHOOD  43 

syringa  made  him  newly  homesick.  What  right  had  the 
dear  home-flowers  to  grow  in  Europe,  transplanted, 
dwarfed,  caged,  exhibited — as  he  was  ?  And  his  hostess 's 
remarks  upon  opium,  as  they  stood  beside  the  poppy 
beds,  did  not  tend  to  soothe  him.  Wu  Li  Chang  did  not 
know  much  about  opium  in  those  days,  but  he  knew  con 
siderably  more  than  Mrs.  Cholmondeley-Piggot  did,  and 
he  knew  that  these  were  not  opium  poppies,  for  all  the 
lady  or  the  guide-books  said — she  had  presented  him 
with  a  guide-book,  of  course.  There  was  not  much 
poppy  culture  in  his  part  of  Sze-chuan,  but  he  knew  that 
much.  Decent  brands  of  opium  were  made  from  the 
white  poppy.  Some  inferior  sorts,  such  as  coolies 
chew,  are  made  from  the  red-flowered  plants,  but  not  such 
as  these. 

To  his  angry  young  eyes  the  expatriated  lotus  plants 
seemed  little  better  than  weeds ;  and  when  she  expatiated 
upon  the  wonders  of  Kew's  banyan  tree  (a  picture  rather 
of  banyan  fragments)  he  scorned  to  tell  her  of  banyans 
he  knew  well  at  home,  trees  under  any  one  of  which  a 
thousand  men  could  shelter  from  the  rain,  and  of  one  his 
grandfather  had  seen  under  which  twenty  thousand  men 
could  hide  from  storm  or  sun. 

The  day  at  Kew  was  a  ghastly  failure.  But  happily 
Mrs.  Cholmondeley-Piggot  never  suspected  it,  and  was 
sincerely  and  generously  sorry  that  the  boy  could  never 
seem  to  find  time  to  go  anywhere  with  her  again. 

The  second  trouble  that  came  to  him  was  on  a  grander 
scale  than  the  cutting  of  hair  or  the  enforced  wearing  of 
strange,  uncomfortable  garments.  It  was  tragedy  in 
deed,  and  almost  broke  his  affectionate,  homesick  heart. 
When  he  had  been  in  England  about  a  year  word  came 
that  his  grandfather  was  dead. 

Wu  was  desperate.    And  now  he  was  quite  alone, 


44  MR.  WU 

He  belonged  to  no  one  in  all  the  world.  And  in  all  the 
world  no  one  belonged  to  him  except  a  baby-girl  just 
learning  to  walk  across  a  floor  of  polished  cherry-wood, 
nearly  eight  thousand  miles  away  in  old  Pekin. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
SOME  BALM 

THERE  was  a  great  deal  in  the  Oxford  life  that  re 
minded  "Wu  of  China:  the  beauty  and  the  dignity, 
the  repose,  the  dedication  (and  of  some  the  devotion  too) 
to  the  finer  things,  and  not  less  the  riot  of  the  "wines," 
the  crash  and  clash  of  the  "rows,"  the  luxury  and  the 
elaborations.  It  was  reminder  that  he  found,  and  not 
resemblance.  Oxford  was  intensely  English.  He  liked 
it  none  the  less  for  that.  Nothing  at  Portland  Place 
had  annoyed  him  more  than  the  mongrel  mix-up  of  West 
and  East,  the  fatuous  attempt  to  blend  the  unblendable. 
It  was  neither  English  goose  nor  Chinese  mongoose,  and 
he  loathed  it.  Oxford  was  good,  downright  English  dog, 
and  well  pedigreed ;  he  liked  the  bark  and  the  bite  of  it 
and  the  honest  look  in  its  eyes. 

The  crass  mistakes  so  often  made  by  his  rich  country 
men  at  such  places  he  avoided,  partly  by  his  own  good 
sense  and  partly  by  Muir's  counsel  and  the  dead  man 
darin's  command.  He  spent  of  his  great  income 
lavishly,  but  not  too  lavishly.  He  kept  good  horses,  but 
not  too  good ;  and  he  kept  no  valet.  His  entertainment 
was  generous,  but  nothing  much  out  of  the  common,  and 
never  beyond  the  convenient  return  of  the  richer  men. 
He  made  much  pleasant  and  useful  acquaintance,  but 
no  friends.  He  indulged  himself  a  little  in  the  furnish 
ing  of  his  rooms,  but  they  scarcely  smacked  of  China. 
His  jade  lamp  had  cost  a  great  deal,  but  a  young  duke 
had  one  that  had  cost  more.  He  had  a  little  bronze  and 

45 


46  MR.  WU 

some  lacquer,  but  he  had  no  kakemonos  and  burned  no 
incense.  Quite  a  number  of  the  other  students  had 
kakemonos  by  the  half-dozen,  and  burned  joss-sticks 
elaborately. 

Wu  worked  prodigiously  at  Oxford  and  played  indus 
triously.  He  enjoyed  the  work.  There  were  some  bril 
liant  men  at  Oxford  then,  but  no  mind  better  than  his, 
and  no  industriousness  to  equal  his.  He  took  nothing 
much  in  honors — that  was  not  in  his  grandfather's 
scheme ;  but  he  assimilated  an  immense  amount  of  alien 
fact  and  thought.  He  learned  Englishmen.  He  read 
many  books  and  mastered  them.  But  he  had  been  sent 
to  Europe  to  study  men  and  peoples,  and  he  never  for 
got  it  or  swerved  from  it  for  an  hour.  None  of  his  fel 
low  undergraduates  particularly  liked  him,  but  few  dis 
liked  him,  and  he  interested  many.  Several  of  the  dona 
and  fellows  did  like  him;  with  one  he  might  have  had 
intimacy  if  he  had  cared  to,  and  from  studying  Wu  two 
of  the  wisest  reversed  a  lifelong  estimate  of  China  and 
the  Chinese. 

He  excelled  at  all  he  did  there.  But  almost  always  he 
was  at  pains  to  be  surpassed  at  the  last  lap;  and  when 
now  and  then  he  won,  he  made  it  his  inexorable  rule  to 
win  by  but  a  hair 's  breadth. 

Not  all  his  fellow  undergraduates  treated  him  with  en 
tire  courtesy.  Some  laughed  at  him  openly  at  times  and 
called  him  "Chops."  And  because  these  presumably 
were  gentlemen  he  was  not  so  altogether  indifferent  to  it 
as  he  had  been  to  the  gibes  of  the  gamins  on  the  London 
streets.  He  was  young  enough  to  wince  at  the  criticisms 
of  companions  he  was  Chinese  enough  to  despise. 

He  studied  women  too  when  he  had  the  chance,  but 
with  all  them  his  relations  were  impeccably  ceremonial 
and  on  the  surface.  His  being  was  in  China  still,  and 


SOME  BALM  47 

no  English  girl  stirred  his  pulse  or  fogged  his  subtle 
shrewdness.  James  Muir,  who  watched  over  him  faith- 
ful  as  a  mother,  had  somewhat  feared  for  him  when  the 
passing  of  adolescence  into  first  raw  manhood  should 
come  pounding  at  the  door  of  sex.  Muir  knew  that  in 
that  experience  Englishmen  in  exile  usually  found  some 
impulse  toward  vagary  irresistible.  But  Wu  lived  on 
unruffled — alone  in  Europe,  and  content  with  loneliness. 

He  did  not  forget  Li  Lu,  but  he  rarely  thought  of 
her  now.  No  doubt  she  would  do  well  enough  when  the 
time  came  to  assert  his  ownership  and  desire  sons.  In 
the  meantime,  he  was  absorbed  in  carrying  out  to  the 
minutest  particle  his  grandfather's  behest. 

There  was  a  girl  at  a  parsonage  where  he  sometimes 
visited  that  he  thought  less  uninteresting  than  the  others 
he  met,  less  like  a  horse  or  a  tornado  or  a  pudding,  more 
like  a  girl.  And  Florence  Grey  made  him  shyly  wel 
come  at  her  tea-table  and  taught  him  to  play  croquet. 
She  played  a  beautiful  game,  and  in  their  second  match 
he  could  have  beaten  her.  He  gave  her  father's  church 
a  new  organ,  and  made  her  first  bazaar  an  unprece 
dented  success :  he  half  stocked  the  tables,  and  then  saw 
that  they  were  swiftly  stripped.  She  knew  of  many  of 
his  "kind  contributions,"  though  not  of  all  his  re 
purchases — they  were  indirectly  made,  and  Mrs.  Muir 
in  Scotland  was  not  a  little  aghast  at  the  frills  and  flum 
meries  her  son  sent  her  in  three  big  packing-cases.  And 
the  Vicar  looked  a  little  askance  at  the  presence  of  a 
smirking  heathen  god,  conspicuous,  but  not  for  being 
overdressed,  on  his  daughter's  stall. 

After  the  Oxford  years  came  several  years  of  travel, 
sometimes  with  Muir,  sometimes  not.  One  summer  Wu 
was  the  Muirs'  guest  in  their  simple  Scottish  home. 

After  her  first  sternly  concealed  qualm  or  two,  the 


48  MR.  WU 

friend's  mother  took  an  immense  liking  to  the  young 
Chinese,  and  her  he  liked  at  once,  perhaps  better  than  he 
had  ever  liked  any  one  but  his  grandfather  and  her  son. 
And  it  was  in  no  way  an  attraction  of  opposites.  Worth 
and  courage  recognized  worth  and  courage,  and  felt  at 
home  with  them.  Ellen  Muir  and  young  Wu  were  both 
indomitable,  naturally  upright,  proud,  clannish.  They 
had  twenty  qualities  and  several  prejudices  in  common. 

They  talked  together  gravely  for  hours.  He  helped 
her  often  as  she  moved  keenly  about  her  housework,  and 
Muir  rocked  with  silent  laughter  at  the  sight,  knowing 
that  those  delicate  yellow  hands  had  never  performed 
anything  menial  before,  and  in  all  human  probability 
never  would  again. 

"Wu  watched  his  hostess  with  lynx  eyes,  and  the  more 
he  watched  the  more  he  respected  and  admired.  Late 
at  night,  in  the  hour  he  invariably  spent  alone,  and  had 
done  so  from  his  first  coming  to  England — the  hour  in 
which  he  read  and  wrote  and  spoke  and  thought  in 
Chinese,  when  in  spirit,  and  bodily  too,  he  made  obeisance 
to  his  ancestors '  tablets  across  the  world — he  wrote  down 
carefully  much  that  she  had  said  and  that  he  had  learned 
from  her.  Among  his  many  sons  the  gods  might  send 
a  daughter,  and  if  they  did  she  too  should  learn  of  Ellen 
Muir. 

Wu  knew,  of  course,  that  many  of  the  English  ladies 
he  had  seen  at  theaters  and  had  met  at  aristocratic  din 
ner-tables  were  respectable,  above  reproach.  But  he  had 
never  yet  escaped  a  shudder  of  contempt  when  he  had 
seen  one  "dressed"  for  evening.  He  had  seen  the  coolie 
women,  in  the  cocoon  sheds  on  his  grandfather's  silk 
worm  farms,  scantily  clad  in  one  brief  garment,  that  by 
their  own  chilliness  they  might  be  warned  if  the  room 
grew  too  cold  for  the  delicate  spinners,  and  that  they 


SOME  BALM  49 

might  easily  shelter  the  hatching  worms  beneath  their 
breasts,  but  that  semi-nudity  was  a  necessity  and  had  a 
use,  and  rarely  was  the  privacy  of  the  shed  invaded ;  but 
women  undressed  (as  he  termed  it)  collectively,  volun 
tarily,  and  interspersed  among  men,  he  thought  abomni- 
able.  Ellen  Muir  did  not  dine  in  decolletage. 

The  eminent  scholar — for  as  such  the  scholar  world 
now  recognized  Wu's  once  tutor — she  commanded,  and 
even  at  times  reprimanded,  sharply,  exacting  and  re 
ceiving  the  docile  obedience  of  a  tractable  child.  And 
that  appealed  to  Wu  as  inevitably  as  did  the  high-necked 
stuff  gowns.  Mother  ruled  sons  so  in  China.  And  in 
China  sons  showed  their  mothers  just  such  meek  obedi 
ence.  The  keeper  of  many  of  the  most  valuable  trea 
sures  at  the  British  Museum  spilled  marmalade  on  her 
best  tablecloth  one  day,  and  she  scolded  him  roundly, 
and  Wu  saw  nothing  funny  in  it,  and  would  not,  had  he 
known  that  the  son  had  bought  the  cloth  and  kept  up  the 
home. 

The  little  house  stood  on  one  of  the  loveliest  of  Scot 
land's  hillsides.  A  brown  burn  rushed  by  the  door. 
Great  birds  wheeled  and  whirred  above  the  eaves.  This 
woman  almost  worshiped  the  beauty  of  her  homeland, 
and  it  touched  her  to  see  how  much  their  strange  guest 
saw  and  felt  it.  He  saw  even  more  of  it  than  she  did — 
though,  fortunately  for  their  mutual  liking,  she  could 
not  suspect  that — and  he  felt  it  very  much  indeed.  It 
reminded  him  of  the  country  beside  the  Yangtze  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  Falls  of  Chung  Shui. 

One  long  vacation  Wu  and  Muir  climbed  the  Alps  and 
the  London  papers  reported  Wu  killed.  But  it  was 
another  Chinese,  »n  undergraduate  at  Cambridge  whose 
name  was  Ku,  who  had  misstepped  and  slid  down  into 
the  engulfing  ice.  But  the  mistake  reached  Oxford,  and 


50  MR.  WU 

several  there  were  sorry  to  hear  it.  And  Florence  Grey, 
who  had  been  married  the  week  before,  heard  it  on  her 
honeymoon,  and  felt  a  little  saddened  for  a  few  mo 
ments.  He  had  always  seemed  a  nice  boy,  and  he  was  so 
far  from  home. 

Once  he  lived  for  three  months  in  Tours,  alone  with 
the  people  and  the  language. 

After  Oxford  he  traveled  carefully,  as  he  had  done 
everything  so  far,  sometimes  alone,  sometimes  with  Muir, 
searching  Europe  for  every  experience  that  might  serve 
his  grandfather's  desire  and  plan. 

When  Wu  was  twenty-four  he  went  home.  James 
Muir  had  half  expected  to  be  asked  to  go  also,  but  Wu 
did  not  suggest  it. 

His  European  phase  was  over,  and  he  wished  to  be 
alone  with  his  own  people  in  his  own  land. 

Bland  and  courteous  to  all,  yet  he  spoke  little  on  the 
long  voyage,  but  sat  looking  out  across  the  waters 
towards  China.  And  he  did  not  trouble  to  leave  the 
boat  either  at  Malta  or  at  Colombo. 

But  he  was  not  dreaming  as  he  sat  brooding,  looking 
out  to  sea.  He  was  planning,  for  himself  and  for  his 
race. 

There  were  international  clouds  ahead.    Wu  saw  them. 

A  week  in  Hong  Kong — he  had  much  to  do  there — 
and  then  he  pushed  across  the  mainland  that  was  still 
China,  where  feet  of  Europe  rarely  trod,  and  journeyed 
to  his  home. 

When  he  had  paid  his  long  respects  to  the  graves  and 
the  tablets,  he  set  his  house  in  order,  and  the  estate. 
But  indeed  all  had  been  well  kept  in  his  absence.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  old  mandarin's  spirit  still  brooded  there 
and  his  adamant  will  still  ruled. 

To  visit  all  he  owned  took  Wu  some  months,  though  he 


SOME  BALM  51 

went  swiftly,  by  boat,  by  horse,  and  in  chairs  with  which 
the  coolies  ran,  for  there  were  several  wide  estates  and 
a  score  of  smaller  holdings. 

All  seen  at  last  and  ordered  to  his  mind,  he  took  the 
old  winding  road  to  Pekin  and  knocked  at  Li's  yamen 
gate. 


CHAPTER  IX 


WU  did  not  see  his  wife  in  Pekin.  He  stayed  with  Li 
several  days,  and  long  and  earnest  was  their  talk, 
many  and  deep  their  interchanged  kot'ows,  and  the  cups 
of  boiling  tea  and  tiny  bowls  of  hot  spiced  wine  they 
drank  together  innumerable.  Mrs.  "Wu  was  well,  they 
assured  him,  and  utterly  inconsolable  at  her  approach 
ing  departure  from  her  parents.  She  wept  and  wailed 
continuously,  and  would  not  be  comforted.  Wu  bowed 
and  smiled.  For  this  was  as  it  should  be.  No  Chinese 
maiden  would  do  otherwise,  and  his  bride's  high  estate 
predicated  an  utmost  excess  of  grief.  And  once  he 
caught  through  a  wide  courtyard  the  noisy  storm  of  her 
grief.  Evidently  she  had  been  well  brought  up,  and  Wu 
was  highly  satisfied. 

He  took  profoundly  respectful  farewells  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Li  and  hurried  home. 

And  while  he  waited  for  the  coming  of  his  bride,  some 
days  thinking  of  it  a  good  deal,  some  days  thinking  of 
it  not  at  all,  he  had  twofold  and  strenuous  occupation. 
He  divided  his  time  between  preparation  for  the  recep 
tion  and  the  housing  of  his  wife,  and  laying  the  founda 
tions  of  his  own  relations  with  the  inumerable  "tongs" 
or  secret  societies  that  in  China  play  so  powerful  and  so 
indescribable  a  part  in  all  things  of  great  pith  and  mo 
ment,  and  more  particularly  in  everything  touching  in 
ternational  affairs  and  the  treatment  of  aliens  in  China. 

Sociology  and  political  economy  had  been  no  small 

52 


WU  LI  LU  53 

part  of  Wu's  studies  in  Europe;  there  he  had  observed 
and  gleaned  much  on  those  lines  that  he  planned  to  graft 
upon  the  sociological  and  political  methods  of  his  own 
people. 

"While  studying  Europe  he  had  kept  in  passionate 
touch  with  China.  He  knew  that  the  mighty  current 
of  her  being  ran  underground.  He  was  permeated  by 
things  European  now,  for  the  time  at  least,  but  was  in 
no  way  enmeshed  by  them.  He  did  not  make  the  mis 
take  that  some  highly  intelligent  Chinese  have  made 
after  years  of  European  study  and  travel — the  mistake 
of  underestimating  the  quality,  the  power,  and  the  per 
manence  of  the  ' '  tongs, ' '  of  which  so  comparatively  little 
is  heard,  so"  much  felt,  in  every  part  of  China. 

He  knew  that  who  ruled  China  in  deed  must  rule 
through  the  secret  societies  of  that  tong-ridden  and  yet 
tong-buttressed  land ;  he  knew  that  who  would  influence 
and  serve  China  greatly  must  work  through  the  tongs, 
or  work  but  half  effectually. 

He  intended  to  rule  in  China,  to  be  one  of  the  supreme 
powers  behind  and  beneath  her  throne ;  for  he  was  loyal 
to  the  Imperial  Manchu,  in  his  heart  held  no  traffic  with 
republicanism  or  rebellion,  and  meant  to  hold  none  with 
his  hands.  He  intended  to  rule  because  dominance  was 
his  nature  and  his  delight,  and  equally  because  he  be 
lieved  it  to  be  his  duty — his  duty  to  China  and  to  the 
house  of  Wu.  Even  more  than  he  intended  to  rule  he 
intended  to  serve.  He  was  his  country's  servant.  He 
had  dedicated  his  life  to  China,  and  sworn  her  his  fealty 
on  almost  every  day  of  his  exile. 

He  determined  to  rule  and  to  serve  with  and  through 
the  established  tongs,  and  himself  to  establish  others,  be 
cause  he  saw  clearly  that  so  he  could  serve  best,  and  with 
the  surest,  tightest  grip. 


54  MR.  WU 

While  he  waited  for  the  girl  to  come  with  noise  and 
cavalcade,  he  stayed  at  home  and  in  the  neighborhood, 
of  home;  but  every  day  odd  messengers  came  and  went, 
quiet,  unobtrusive  men.  Often  Wu  was  closeted  for 
hours  with  some  shabby-looking  coolie,  footsore  and 
travel-torn.  Wu  was  seeking  and  making  affiliation  with 
tong  after  tong.  He  was  sowing  seed  all  over  vast 
China. 

But  he  found  time,  or  took  it,  to  oversee  every  item 
of  the  bridal  preparation.  So  lavish  had  been  his  orders 
on  his  first  home-coming,  and  so  well  had  they  been 
obeyed,  that  further  preparation  might  have  been  dis 
pensed  with — only  a  Chinese  mind  could  have  detected 
blemish  or  contrived  improvement  or  addition.  Wu's 
mind  was  very  Chinese.  Thirteen  years  in  banishment 
had  not  discolored  it  in  the  least.  Everything  that  Lu 
would  touch,  every  place  that  she  would  see,  was  in 
some  way  or  detail  given  additional  beauty  or  comfort. 
In  her  garden  he  lavished  a  wealth  of  care.  The  very 
flowers  seemed  to  respond  to  his  urging,  as  things  much 
more  inanimate  than  flowers  do  respond  to  such  a  master 
will  as  that  of  Wu.  Wu  Lu's  garden  foamed  and 
glowed  with  bud,  perfume  and  flower,  until  even  in 
China  there  could  scarcely  have  been  another  spot  so 
roseate  or  so  full  of  rapture. 

There  was  a  pagoda  of  course,  a  bridge,  a  lotus  lake,  a 
sun-dial  and  a  forest  of  tiny  dwarf  trees. 

The  pagoda  had  eleven  storeys.  Each  storey's  pro 
jecting  roof  had  eight  corners,  and  from  each  corner 
Wu  had  hung  a  bell  of  precious  blue  porcelain,  silver 
lined,  silver  clappered.  The  slightest  breeze  that  came 
must  set  one  or  more  of  the  delicate  things  a-ringing, 
and  by  a  costly  and  ingenious  device  each  motion  of  a 
bell  threw  down  on  the  garden  not  only  music,  but 


WU  LI  LU  55 

sweet,  aromatic  smell — a  different  odor,  as  a  different 
note,  from  each  bell. 

That  was  the  last  thing  "Wu  could  find  to  do. 

And  then  they  gave  him  his  wife.  They  brought  her 
to  him  through  the  gloaming  one  balmy  autumn  eve,  sit 
ting  hidden  in  her  flowery  chair,  carried  through  the 
paifang  which  he  had  regilded  and  newly  crimsoned  in 
her  honor  and  in  that  of  his  never-to-be-forgotten  great- 
grandmother. 

She  came  in  greatest  state,  and  much  of  the  glittering 
ceremonial  they  had  enacted  fourteen  years  ago  they  re- 
enacted  now;  and  all  that  necessarily  had  been  omitted 
before  because  of  her  tender  days,  and  of  the  marriage 
having  been  (irregularly)  celebrated  at  her  home  in  lieu 
of  Ms,  was  scrupulously  performed  now. 

At  the  house  door  he  bent  and  lifted  her  from  her 
chair,  which  the  bearers  had  put  down  on  the  ground. 
She  shrank  back  on  her  cushions  into  the  farthest  corner 
when  he  drew  the  curtains  aside,  and  when  he  reached 
to  touch  her  she  panted  delicately  like  some  frightened 
pigeon.  He  could  not  see  her,  even  when  he  held  her  in 
his  arms,  for  she  was  shrouded  from  crown  to  toe  in  her 
voluminous  veil  of  crimson  gauze.  There  had  been  no 
difficulty  about  her  wearing  it  this  time.  She  knew  all 
the  niceties  of  her  important  role,  of  which  she  had  been 
so  outrageously  ignorant  before,  and  performed  them  to 
a  Chinese  perfection.  He  saw  only  a  red-wrapped 
bundle — it  felt  soft  and  tender  to  his  gentle  grip — with 
an  under-gleam  of  jewels  and  gold,  and  the  iridescent 
glitter  of  the  strings  of  many-colored  beads  hanging 
from  her  crown  thickly  over  her  face.  And  no  one  else 
saw  even  that  much,  for  when  the  chair  had  been  laid 
at  his  feet  the  bearers  and  all  her  retinue  and  his  had 
turned  away  and  stood  backs  to  the  chair. 


56  MR.  WU 

He  carried  her  in,  holding  her  over  a  dish  of  smoking 
charcoal  at  the  threshold,  that  all  ill-luck  might  be  for 
ever  fumed  away  from  her. 

In  the  great  hall  he  sat  her  high  up  upon  her  chair  of 
state  and  took  his  seat  on  his.  For  more  than  an  hour 
they  sat  so,  and  neither  spoke.  But  when  the  wild  goose 
which  the  medicine-man  flung  from  a  lacquered  cage 
circled  about  her  head  and  not  about  his  own,  indicat 
ing  that  she  would  rule,  not  he,  Wu  laughed  aloud,  and 
under  her  red  veil  the  girl  looked  down  at  her  half- 
inch  embroidered  shoe  and  smiled  well  pleased. 

They  drank  from  one  cup.  The  crimson  cord  was 
tied  about  her  wrist  and  his,  fastening  them  together 
now  for  weal  or  woe. 

At  length  he  rose  and  led  her  to  the  tablets  of  his 
ancestors — hers  too  now,  for  Li  was  no  longer  her  father 
— and  there  they  bent  together  and  paid  homage  again 
and  again. 

Then  came  the  marriage  feast. 

And  through  all  the  incense  burned,  the  tom-toms 
bleated  brazenly,  a  hundred  instruments  gave  out  their 
unchorded  melodies,  and  the  slave-girls  shrilled  Chinese 
love-songs  in  their  sweet  falsetto  voices  and  a  marriage 
hymn  that  is  four  thousand  years  old. 

And  all  this  time  he  had  not  seen  her  face,  and  she 
but  dimly  his. 

But  at  last  they  were  left  alone.  One  by  one  the 
horde  of  people  who  had  witnessed  and  served  them 
made  repeated  obesiance  and  withdrew. 

They  were  alone. 

Gently,  carefully,  slowly  he  led  her  into  an  inner 
room,  and  there  he  lifted  the  red  veil  and  looked  at  her 
face.  After  a  long  moment  she  raised  her  pretty  almond 
eyes  and  looked  in  his — two  gorgeous,  bedizened  figures, 


WU  LI  LU  57 

standing  very  still,  with  a  cloud  of  red  silk  gauze  heaped 
at  their  feet. 

Wu  made  a  sudden  sound  that  was  almost  a  sob,  and 
held  out  his  arms. 

"My  flower,"  he  said. 

All  night  long  the  perfume  of  the  flowers,  the  sweet, 
shrill  voices  of  the  sing-song  girls,  and  the  soundings  of 
the  guitar  and  the  flutes  stole  softly  in  through  the 
chamber  casements ;  all  night  long  they  heard  the  throb, 
throb  of  the  drums  and  of  old  barbaric  love-songs;  and 
all  night  long  each  felt  the  beating  of  the  other's  heart. 

After  that  Wu  Li  Lu  forgot  that  she  had  had  a  father 
and  a  mother,  brothers,  girl-friends  and  a  home  in  Pekin. 
And  Wu  let  all  the  days  slip  by,  forgetting  business  of 
his  own,  affairs  of  China,  life-plans,  life-schemes,  almost 
forgetting  his  grandfather;  scarcely  remembering,  his 
wife's  soft  hand  in  his,  to  make  obeisance  before  the  old, 
old  tablet  in  front  of  which  their  children  would  bow  and 
worship  them  in  far-off  years  to  come,  when  he  and  Wu 
Lu  should  be  dead. 

For  a  year  they  lived  in  paradise,  the  pretty  paradise 
that  comes  but  once  and  does  not  come  to  all. 

Mrs.  Wu  was  as  sweet,  as  delicate,  as  the  graceful  pet 
names  he  called  her.  She  had  no  great  strength  of 
character,  and  little  distinction  of  mind.  How  long  it 
would  have  taken  the  infatuated  man  to  learn  this  is 
impossible  to  guess.  Whether,  when  learned,  it  would 
have  diminished  her  fascination  in  the  least  is  as  difficult 
to  determine,  but,  on  the  whole,  probably  not,  Wu  being 
Wu  in  China  China. 

When  their  first  year  closed  in  she  bore  him  a  daugh 
ter,  and  in  bearing  died. 


CHAPTER  X 

NANG  PING 

HE  years  passed,  and  Wu  took  no  other  wife.  Time 
_L  enough,  he  reasoned ;  and  while  he  devoted  himself, 
body  and  soul  and  seething,  subtle  intellect,  to  the  big 
tasks  he  had  set  himself  and  had  had  set  him  by  tne  old 
mandarin  long  ago,  the  bachelor  habit  grew  upon  him 
and  encrusted  him  with  its  self-sufficient  and  not  un 
selfish  little  customs,  as  it  does  so  many  men  of  Europe. 
Perhaps  in  this  and  in  some  other  things  Europe  had 
marked  and  tinged  him  more  than  he  knew. 

Except  for  his  wifelessness,  he  kept  all  such  establish 
ment  as  a  Chinese  gentleman  should;  there  were  flower- 
girls  in  his  retinue  and  much  in  his  life  of  which  Ellen. 
Muir  would  have  disapproved  violently. 

He  had  felt  no  disappointment  at  the  sex  of  his  first 
born.  Perhaps  his  grief  (it  was  very  great)  at  Wu  Lu's 
death  made  him  indifferent  to  the  great  sex-blemish  in 
the  child.  Or  possibly  his  descent  from  Queen  Yenfi 
and  from  a  score  of  ladies  little  less  able  or  less  famed 
gave  him  an  unconscious  estimate  of  the  woman-sex 
strangely  un-Chinese — unless  China  be  misreported. 

Mrs.  Li  had  petitioned  for  the  custody  of  the  babe, 
but  Wu  had  refused  sternly.  ' '  She  is  a  Wu.  She  stays 
with  Wu."  But  he  conceded  a  point — a  minor  point. 
A  younger  sister  of  Mrs.  Li's  was  widowed  at  about  the 
time  of  Wu  Lu's  death,  widowed  while  still  a  bride  and 
childless.  She  begged  to  come  and  ba  foster-mother  and 
servant  to  the  motherless  babe;  and  Wu  had  consented 


NANG  PING  59 

to  her  coming,  for  a  time  at  least,  partly  because  he  had 
known  and  liked  her  husband,  partly  in  pity  for  her 
widowhood — the  most  uncomfortable  condition  in 
Chinese  life,  and  abjectly  deplorable  when  the  indignity 
of  childlessness  is  added — partly  because  he  had  no 
kinswoman  of  his  own  to  fill  a  post  which  he  instinctively 
hesitated  to  confer  on  any  hireling.  Sing  Kung  Yah 
came;  "Wu  found  her  amiable  and  tractable,  and,  he 
thought,  fairly  efficient.  Of  her  fondness  for  the  child 
or  the  child's  fondness  for  her  there  could  be  no  doubt, 
and  her  place  in  their  household  soon  came  to  be  one  of 
established  permanency.  From  the  first  Wu  exacted  for 
her  treatment  from  his  retainers  such  as  Eastern  widows 
rarely  enjoy,  and  gradually  he  gave  her  some  real 
authority,  as  well  as  much  show  of  it,  in  addition  to  the 
lavish  courtesy  he  paid  and  enforced  for  her.  Sing 
Kung  Yah  was  pathetically  grateful.  She  never  heard 
of  Ellen  Muir,  and  little  thought  that  she  owed  her  un 
precedented  ease  of  widowhood  to  the  dignity  and  firm 
despotism  with  which  an  Aryan  woman  had  worn  her 
weeds  in  Fife. 

When  Nang  Ping  was  three  her  father  brought  her 
to  Kowloon,  and  when  she  was  thirteen  established  her 
as  mistress  of  the  tiny  and  very  charming  estate  he  had 
bought  and  perfected  there,  just  beyond  the  English 
holding,  and  where  he  made  his  home  when  his  business 
lay,  as  it  did  more  often  than  not,  in  Hong  Kong. 

He  knew  now  that  he  should  take  no  wife.  He  had 
no  wish  to,  and  he  saw  no  necessity.  For  he  could  adopt 
a  son — presently.  There  was  time  enough.  A  wife  was 
neither  here  nor  there,  but  certainly  a  son  was  indispen 
sable.  He  could  not  die  without  a  son.  Without  a  son 
he  could  not  be  properly  buried,  or  mourned  and  wor 
shiped. 


6o  MR.  WU 

Upon  the  great  wealth  his  grandfather  had  left  him 
he  piled  wealth  far  greater.  But  far  beyond  the  riches 
he  amassed  he  amassed  power  and  influence.  The  rami 
fications  of  his  influence  were  endless  and  tortuous. 
Tze-Shi  felt  Wu's  influence  as  she  decreed  policies, 
signed  edicts  and  enacted  laws  of  tremendous  reach, 
weaving  and  fraying  out  the  destiny  of  China,  and  there 
was  not  a  coolie  in  Hong  Kong  but  felt  and  obeyed  it. 
No  one  in  China — unless  it  was  Tze-Shi  herself — wielded 
more  power  than  Wu. 

He  held  the  Chinese  in  Shanghai,  in  Penang  and  in 
Rangoon,  in  Bentick  Street  and  in  Yokohoma,  in  the  hol 
low  of  his  hand. 

Wu  wore  a  mandarin 's  button  now.  And  he  had  pre 
sented  himself  at  one  of  the  great  national  examinations 
in  the  first  year  of  his  fatherhood.  To  be  enrolled 
among  the  literati  served  him  and  his  purposes,  as  it  did 
to  wear  the  coveted  peacock  feather.  But  he  did  not 
overvalue  either  of  the  showy  distinctions,  or  often  wear 
them  conspicuously.  Chinese  to  the  core,  superficially 
he  was  HO  little  cosmopolitan.  All  that  he  had  found 
good  in  English  life  and  in  English  ways  he  adopted 
frankly,  but  always  for  a  Chinese  purpose,  with  a 
Chinese  heart.  At  home  he  usually  wore  the  dress  and 
ate  the  food  of  his  country,  but  not  always.  Out  of  his 
home,  at  least  in  the  treaty  ports,  he  was  usually  dressed 
as  Englishmen  dress,  but  not  always. 

Nang  Ping  had  more  apparent  freedom  than  other 
Chinese  girls  of  fair  birth  have ;  and  some  of  it  was  real. 
She  had  English  governesses  from  time  to  time.  She 
spoke  English  almost  as  purely  as  her  father  did,  but 
with  less  vocabulary  and  far  less  command  of  idiom,  and 
French  quite  as  well  as  he ;  she  played  Grieg  and  Chopin 
better  than  Hilda  Gregory — the  rich  steamship  mag- 


NANG  PING  61 

nate's  only  daughter,  and  not  a  contemptible  pianist — 
so  the  German  music  master  who  taught  them  both  had 
told  the  Governor's  wife. 

The  Gregorys  had  been  in  Hong  Kong  for  a  year — 
the  mother,  the  son  and  daughter,  as  well  as  Mr.  Gregory 
himself.  But  the  two  girls  had  never  met.  Hilda 
Gregory  went  everywhere,  but  Nang  Ping  did  not  often 
leave  Kowloon. 


CHAPTER  XI 
IN  THE  LOTUS  GARDEN 

KOWLOON  was  drenched  with  sunlight,  and  the 
lotus  garden  was  drenched  with  music.  A  min 
strel  paused  a  moment  to  drink  in  the  beauty  of  the  great 
lilies,  white,  yellow,  pink,  amber  and  mauve,  one  that 
had  cost  a  fortune,  clear  pale  blue,  one  that  had  cost 
more,  a  delicate  jade  green. 

The  strolling  singer  retuned  his  lute  and  moyed  across 
the  garden,  singing  as  he  went. 

It  was  the  typical  garden  of  a  rich  Chinese  home — 
so  repeatedly  caricatured  on  the  "  willow-tree-pattern " 
crockery  of  cheap  European  commerce — caricatured  but 
also  somewhat  accurately  portrayed.  But  the  gardens 
on  the  plates  for  sale  in  half  the  pawnshops  in  outer 
London  (the  aristocracy  of  the  pawnbrokers  will  not 
look  at  them  any  more),  in  every  household  furnisher's 
in  Marylebone  and  Camberwell,  in  Battersea  and  Shore- 
ditch,  and  on  the  business  streets  of  every  British  town 
and  village,  are  of  one  uniform  Chinese  blue — the  blue 
the  sampsan  women  wear  when  their  clothes  are  new — 
and  background  of  white,  Chinese  white,  appropriately 
enough.  This  living  garden  in  Kowloon  was  of  every 
vivid  hue  on  nature's  prodigal  palette,  and  its  back 
ground  was  of  blue  hills  and  purple  haze  and  blue,  white 
and  limpid  golden  sky. 

A  twisted  camel 's  back  bridge  of  carved  stonework, 
like  coarse  lace  in  its  pierced  tracery,  dragons  squatting 
and  guarding  its  corners,  and  flowers  hung  from  it 

62 


IN  THE  LOTUS  GARDEN  63 

everywhere  in  baskets  of  bamboo,  of  crystal,  of  painted 
porcelain  and  of  lacquer,  spanned  one  corner  of  the  lake, 
above  which  a  crooked  flight  of  steps  at  each  bridge-end 
lifted  it  high.  Dwarf  trees  in  glazed  pots,  some  on  the 
ground,  rarer  specimens  on  carved  stands  of  teak  wood 
and  of  ebony,  stood  here  and  there.  And  in  the  artificial 
water,  half  river,  half  lake,  which  the  miniature  bridge 
crossed,  the  priceless  lotus  grew  and  glowed.  Most  of 
the  great  lily  cups  were  pink,  others  were  deeply  red. 

Some  distance  from  the  house  there  was  a  pagoda  open 
to  the  garden,  its  plaid  floor  strewn  with  cushions,  a 
book  or  two,  a  woman's  scarf,  and  from  every  outer 
point  and  eave  hung  a  pot  or  a  basket  in  which  flowers 
of  every  brilliant  hue  grew  and  bloomed. 

A  sinuous  gravel  path  turned  from  the  dwelling-house 
to  the  outer  wall,  twisting  and  turning  ingeniously  all 
over  the  garden,  passing  close  to  the  cypress  bush  at  the 
foot  of  the  steps  that  led  to  the  bridge,  skirting  the 
baby  grove  of  dwarf  orange  and  lemon  trees,  and  en 
circling  the  gnarled  old  cherry  tree. 

Whatever  we  may  think  of  China,  the  sun  thinks  well, 
and  shines  so  gloriously  nowhere  else.  It  made  the 
flowers  in  Nang  Ping's  garden  glow  with  a  vivid  bril 
liance  that  was  part  their  own,  part  his;  it  touched  the 
summits  of  the  hills  seen  in  the  distance  with  a  light 
blue  haze  which  deepened  to  purple  at  their  base. 
Against  that  dark  purple  background  the  sumptuous 
little  garden  foreground  glowed  with  a  riot  of  color,  and 
quivered  with  pulsing,  scent-breathing  flowers. 

A  servant  squatted  on  his  yellow  heels,  picking  up 
dead  leaves  and  broken  flowers  heads,  gathering  them 
into  his  tidy  basket.  Another  gardener  was  sweeping 
the  gravel  path  as  carefully  as  if  it  had  been  the  velvet 
carpet  than  which  it  was  no  less  soft. 


54  MR.  WU 

Four  girls  tripped  down  the  bridge,  chattering  and 
laughing  as  they  came,  and  the  gardeners  took  up  basket 
and  broom  and  moved  away. 

Hearing  the  singer  (he  had  left  the  garden  new),  the 
girls  rushed  with  one  accord,  and  climbed  and  clambered 
up  until  they  could  peer  at  him  over  the  wall.  One 
poised  like  a  fat  balloon-shaped  butterfly  on  the  high 
edge  of  a  great  flower-pot,  two  jostled  together  tip-toe  on 
a  majolica  bench,  and  one  (the  smallest  footed  of  the  lot) 
climbed  squirrel-nimble  up  a  tulip  tree.  They  pelted 
him  with  flowers,  tearing  blossoms  ruthlessly  from  shrub 
and  vase  and  vine  and  tree,  and  each  commanded  him 
shrilly  to  sing  to  her  her  favorite  song. 

"Chong-chong  er-ti"  (professional  singer),  "sing 
on,"  one  cried;  "Yao  won  chong"  (let  us  play  with 
him),  another;  and  the  girl  in  the  tree  tore  the  jasmine 
from  her  hair  and  tossed  it  into  his  hands. 

He  leaned  against  the  wall  and  sang : 

"Over  green  fields  and  meadows  Tiny  Eill  ran 
(The  little  precocious  coquette!)  ; 

She  was  pretty,  she  knew,  and  thus  early  began 
Gayly  flirting  with  all  that  she  met. 

Her  favors  on  both  sides  she'd  gracefully  shower; 

One  moment  she'd  kiss  the  sweet  lips  of  a  flower, 
The  next  lave  the  root  of  a  tree;" 

and  as  he  sang,  Nang  Ping,  with  Low  Soong,  her  cousin, 
in  her  wake,  came  slowly  from  the  house,  and  stood 
listening  too,  one  finger  on  her  lips,  her  eyes  far  on  the 
fading  hills. 

They  did  not  see  their  mistress — they  were  her  play- 
girls,  in  attendance  on  rich  Wu's  child — until  the  man 
had  done  and  gone.  But  when  they  did  they  rushed 
to  her,  laughing  and  pelting  her  with  speech.  "Nang 
Ping!  Nang  Ping!  Come,  play  with  us]  Come,  play!" 


IN  THE  LOTUS  GARDEN  65 

But  she  beat  them  off,  saying,  "Go  away.    I  do  not 
want  you  now.     Go  away. ' ' 

But  they  clustered  the  closer  and  girdled  her  with 
their  arms,  but  again  she  shook  them  off,  repeating  im 
patiently,  "Pa  choopa,  pa  choopa;"  and  realizing  that 
she  meant  it,  they  went,  tumbling  against  each  other  as 
they  ran  laughing  and  singing,  and  turning  as  they 
went,  and  hurling  flowers  at  her,  and  crying,  "Pu  yao 
choopa,"  that  they  did  not  wish  to  go  away. 

When  they  had  gone  the  cousins  went  to  the  pagoda, 
looked  in  it,  and  then  about  it,  carefully.  Then  they  beat 
the  garden  as  some  careful  watchman  might  some  trea 
sure-place  of  price. 

It  was  growing  dusk. 

The  girls  went  together  to  the  lotus  basin,  and  stood 
a  long  time  looking  down  into  its  darkling  glass.  But 
neither  spoke.  The  brilliant  lilies  were  softer-colored 
now,  turning  to  pink  and  blue-greys,  and  the  red  few 
almost  to  ruddy  black. 

A  long,  low  whistle  pierced  through  the  gloaming 
from  beyond  the  wall. 

Nang  Ping's  tiny  hand  clutched  excitedly  at  her  sash. 
"Soetzo" — "go  and  watch  over  the  bridge,"  she  told 
her  cousin  quickly.  But  Low  Soong  had  already  gone. 

The  blackbird  whistle  came  again,  nearer,  but  very 
soft. 

Nang  Ping  answered  it  with  a  high  falsetto  crooning, 
and  in  a  moment  more  a  man  cautiously  parted  the 
bamboos  that  grew  clumped  beyond  the  wall,  vaulted  it, 
and  stood  within  the  garden.  Nang  Ping  ran  to  him 
with  a  little  gurgling  cry,  and  he  caught  her  in  his 
arms. 

No  Chinese  lover  this,  in  Oriental  gala  dress,  with 
glancing  amber  eyes  and  coarse  threads  of  strong  red 


66  MR.  WU 

silk  prolonging  his  long  braid  of  straight  hair,  but  a 
Saxon,  wide  gray-eyed,  a  distinct  wave  in  his  fair  short 
hair,  trim  and  British  in  his  well-cut  suit  of  white  duck, 
with  the  crimson  cummerbund  wound  about  his  waist. 

He  looked  down  with  laughing  tenderness  at  the  pic 
turesque  little  creature  in  his  clasp,  half -affectionate, 
half-amused,  and  she  looked  up  at  him  with  all  a 
woman's  soul — soul  aflame — and  all  a  nation's  passion 
in  her  eyes,  adoring  and  perfect  trustfulness. 

"Oh!  my  celestial  little  angel,"  he  murmured  at  her 
flushing  cheek. 

The  girl  nestled  closely  and  sighed  with  content,  and 
he  held  her,  and  played  with  the  dangling  jewel  in  her 
fantastic  hair. 

"You  have  been  so  cruel  long,  Basil,"  the  girl  told 
him  gently,  but  moving  not  at  all. 

Basil  Gregory  laughed  lightly.  "So?  I  could  not 
come  before.  You  're  an  impatient  puss. ' ' 

Nang  Ping  shook  her  sheeny  head,  and  the  red  flower 
in  her  wonderfully  dressed  hair  shook  and  quivered, 
and  all  the  jade  stick-pins  and  the  hanging  emeralds 
and  turquoise  jangled  against  the  tassel  of  small  pearls 
that  she  wore  pendant  from  her  comb.  "No.  I  am 
never  impatient.  But  the  sun-dial  tells  not  lies.  You 
came  not  soon,  and  I  did  miss  you  hard. ' ' 

' '  Well,  I  've  brought  you  news.     Guess. ' ' 

"Thy  honorable  mother " 

"Good  girl!  You've  guessed  it  first  go.  My  mother 
and  Hilda  are  coming  to-morrow  to  make  the  acquaint 
ance  of  pretty  Miss  Wu  and  to  see  her  very  honorable 
garden." 

"Your  mother  and  your  sister,"  the  girl  said  under 
her  breath  softly.  "  Ah ! " 

''They  were  no  end  pleased  to  come,  especially  tt« 


IN  THE  LOTUS  GARDEN  67 

mater.  She'd  come  quick  enough  anywhere  I  told  her 
to.  We've  been  the  greatest  chums  always,  the  mater 
and  I.  Hilda  pals  with  the  governor,  but  she's  no  end 
keen  on  China,  the  motherkin — goes  into  all  sorts  of 
smelly  dives  and  dens  after  blue  plates  and  shaky  ivory 
balls,  and — and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know;  reads 
the  rummiest  books,  knows  all  about  spotted  dragons  and 
crinkly  gods.  She  bought  one  yesterday,  a  rum,  fat  fel 
low  made  out  of  some  sort  of  crockery  stuff;  he  sits 
squatted  on  the  floor  this  minute  in  her  own  room,  and 
if  you  pat  him  on  his  noddle  the  old  chap  nods  it,  and 
goes  on  nodding  it,  too,  for  a  blessed  hour  by  the  clock" 
— Nang  Ping  understood  less  than  half  of  this  truly  Brit 
ish  ramble,  and  listened  to  it  with  a  puzzled  smile — 
"and  she  is  no  end  keen  to  come,  to  see  how  things  are 
done  in  real  China.  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  she  wrcrte 
an  article  for  one  of  the  picture  papers  at  home — 'The 
Chinese  at  Home,'  or  some  such  stuff.  I  say,  you'll  be 
sure  to  give  her  tea  Chinese  fashion.  No  borrowed 
European  tricks,  you  know ;  just  pucka  Chinaman  way ! ' ' 

Nang  Ping  understood  the  drift,  if  not  quite  all  his 
words.  ''It  shall  be  as  you  wish:  Chinese  reception, 
Chinese  delicacies,  offered  Chinese  way. ' ' 

''That  will  be  ripping  then." 

"How  strange  it  will  be  to  talk  with  thy  honorable 
mother!"  the  girl  said  wistfully.  "And  thy  sister!  Is 
she  like  me,  or  more  beautiful?"  she  asked  most 
seriously.  And  that  he  might  judge  his  answer  the 
more  nicely  and  adjust  his  answer  to  exact  truth,  she 
went  from  him  a  few  paces,  opened  her  fan  wide,  spread 
out  her  arms,  and  stood  very  still,  a  pathetic  figure  of 
Chinese  girlhood  on  view,  waiting,  anxious  but  meek,  an 
Englishman's  verdict.  And  then,  remembering  that  the 
light  was  somewhat  dim,  she  came  a  little  nearer,  but  not 


68  MR.  WU 

too  close,  and  repeated  her  grave  question,  "Is  thy 
honorable  sister  like  Nang  Ping,  or  even  more  beauti 
ful?" 

Basil  laughed  with  kindly  patronage.  ''Hilda?" 
Strolling  to  the  wide  stone  bench  he  threw  his  hat  on  to 
it  and  sat  down.  "All  nice  girls  are  like  each  other, 
Nang  Ping.  Hilda's  so-so.  But  Tom  Carruthers  thinks 
she's  'top-side'  nice.  Carruthers'  the  governor's  secre 
tary,  and  I  rather  think  he's  going  to  be  my  honorable 
brother-in-law.  The  governor  won't  object.  Tom's 
right  enough,  and  old  Carruthers  got  any  amount  of  tin. 
The  Right  Reverend  John  B.  thinks  Sis  nice  too,  or  I'm 
greatly  mistaken.  It's  a  queer  freak  for  a  parson,  for 
Hilda  isn't  exactly  churchified,  but  Bradley  finds  her 
nice  all  right." 

"And  my  lord  finds  me  nice?" 

The  gray  eyes  narrowed.  "Very  nice,"  the  man  an 
swered,  and  held  out  his  arms. 

She  went  at  once  and  sat  down  on  the  other  end  of 
the  bench.  Gregory  bent  and  kissed  her,  and  presently 
she  kissed  him  in  return.  And  the  sudden  darkness 
thickened,  creeping  closer,  for  there  is  no  true  gloaming, 
no  lingering  dusk,  in  the  Orient.  It  is  day  there,  or 
else  it  is  night. 

The  glow-worms  came  out  then  and  speckled  the  gar 
den  with  tiny  points  of  fire.  Nang  Ping  called  them 
by  a  prettier  name :  kwang  yin  teng,  lamps  of  mercy,  as 
her  father  had  called  them  when,  as  a  boy  of  ten,  he 
crossed  Sze-chuan  to  wed  her  baby  mother  in  Pekin. 

They  kissed  again,  the  man  and  the  girl.  Kissing  is 
not  a  Chinese  art.  Basil  Gregory  had  taught  "Wu  Nang 
Ping  to  kiss. 

"Oh!  if  only  I  could!"  the  girl  said  impulsively,  and 
then  broke  off  as  suddenly  as  she  had  begun. 


IN  THE  LOTUS  GARDEN  69 

"Could  what,  Nang  Ping?"  He  asked  it  a  little  un 
easily — uneasy  at  a  something  in  her  voice. 

"Tell  them  all  about  us,"  she  replied  simply,  but  her 
voice  aglow  with  ecstasy  at  the  thought. 

Gregory  was  aghast.  "Tell  them  all  about  us!"  he 
cried  hoarsely. 

"Oh!  not  all  things,"  she  whispered,  creeping  a  little 
closer  in  his  arms.  "There  are  some  things  one  would 
not  tell,  even  to  the  birds." 

Basil  Gregory's  conscience,  to  its  credit,  shuddered 
sickly  then,  and  his  arm  trembled,  not  in  tenderness,  but 
in  shame. 

But  self-preservation  is  indeed  the  first  law  of  much 
man-nature,  and  he  said  quickly,  "I  don't  mind  what 
you  tell  to  the  birds,  but  you  must  be  extremely  careful 
not  to  let  my  mother  or  sister  know.  Extremely  care 
ful,"  he  repeated  with  dictatorial  emphasis. 

"Why?" 

' '  They  would  not  understand. ' ' 

"Why?" 

He  made  no  answer,  and  after  a  little  she  questioned 
on,  "They  would  not  like  to  know  that  you  are  happy?" 

"Of  course  they  would,  but " 

"And  that  it  is  I  that  make  you  happy?"  the  light 
young  voice  pestered  on  wistfully. 

The  Englishman  shifted  uneasily  on  his  seat.  "Oil, 
no!  nothing  of  that  sort,  to  them,  Nang  Ping,"  he  said 
petulantly.  "Don't  try  to  understand.  Just  leave  it 
all  to  me." 

"But,"  the  girl  persisted,  "do  they  not  understand 
love  ? ' '  She  put  her  arms  about  him. 

"Oh!  well,"  he  parried,  "you  see,  they  are  English — 
very  English." 

"But  they  are  women."     The  Chinese  girl  shook  her 


70  MR.  WU 

head,  smiling  unconvinced,  and  all  its  jeweled  filigree 
twinkled  and  winked  in  the  opalescent  half  light. 
"They  are  women.  All  women  understand  love,  even 
before  the  man  comes  to  teach  them.  We  are  born  so. 
Your  honorable  mother  and  the  honorable  Hilda,  they 
understand;  Nang  Ping  is  sure  they  do,  the  wise  and 
virtuous  ladies." 

"Not — not  altogether.  You  see,  things  are  different 
with  us.  Secret  love  is  not  looked  upon  like — like  mar 
ried  love." 

The  girl  laughed  softly.  "Then  let  it  be  no  longer 
secret!"  she  purred  contentedly,  warmly  willing  to 
make  his  people  hers,  their  ways  her  ways.  "You  shall 
tell  them!"  she  said  brightly,  laying  her  little  hands 
palm  down  on  his. 

"Oh!  but,  Nang  Ping,"  Basil  began  miserably.  But 
Nang  would  have  none  of  that.  She  nestled  to  him 
closer  still.  ' '  Basil, ' '  she  interrupted,  * '  if  our  love  were 
not  secret,  but  married  love,  and  I  flew  away  with  you 
before  my  honorable  father  came  back,  then  would  thy 
honorable  mother  like  me  in  her  house  ? — if  I  did  that — 
for  love  make  brave  for  everything?" 

Gregory  was  almost  choking.  But  he  controlled  him 
self  :  that  was  the  least  he  could  do  for  her  now.  ' '  Dear 
child!"  he  said  huskily,  and  then  he  kissed  her.  There 
was  tenderness  in  his  kiss,  and  passion  and  bitter  re 
morse.  She  felt  the  passion  and  the  tenderness.  He 
broke  from  her  gently  and  moved  away,  standing  look 
ing  down  moodily  at  the  darkening  lotus  flowers,  dis 
tressed,  all  his  light-hearted  happiness  of  idle,  selfish 
weeks  gone,  gone  forever.  "Oh,  Nang  Ping!"  pres 
ently  he  said  ruefully,  "it  would  be  better  if  you  had 
never  met  me,"  and  he  moved  restlessly  still  a  little 
farther  away. 


IN  THE  LOTUS  GARDEN  71 

But  still  she  would  not  understand.  She  rose  and 
went  to  him,  and  put  her  little  arms  about  him  again. 
"No,"  she  said  with  tender,  caressing  emphasis,  "be 
cause  I  am  happy."  And  then  she  added — for  it  was 
growing  dark,  something  that  lay  warm  on  her  heart  to 
say — that  must  be  said  soon  now,  "Basil's  honorable 
mother  would  like  me  then,  if — if  I  gave  a  son  to  worship 
at  the  grave  of  thy  ancestors ! ' ' 

Gregory  recoiled  a  little  from  the  girl's  gentle,  cling 
ing  arms — recoiled  with  a  startled  cry:  the  world-old 
cry  of  man  confronted  for  the  first  time  with  very  self ; 
the  cry  of  man  hoist  at  last  with  his  own  petard.  But 
pity,  too,  for  her,  as  yet  so  free  from  pity  for  herself, 
welled  up  in  him  (he  was  not  all  bad — who  is?),  and  he 
controlled  himself  again  for  her  sake.  It  was  difficult, 
but  even  so  it  was  not  much  to  do  in  return  for  what 
she  had  done  for  him.  And  it  was  the  only  return  that 
he  could  make,  or  would,  the  giving  her  some  gentle 
ness  of  treatment  even  in  the  crash  of  his  own  dismay. 
He  came  back,  and  caught  her  elbows  in  his  hands,  and 
held  her  from  him  so — at  arm's  length.  "Nang  Ping," 
he  tried  to  say  it  lightly,  "what  amazing  ideas  you  get 
into  your  head ! ' ' 

"No,"  she  said  stoutly,  "not  so!  Listen!  All  the 
women  in  China  make  one  big  prayer  in  the  temples  to 
the  goddess  Kwan-Yin" — he  released  her  arms,  letting 
his  fall  at  his  sides  helplessly,  his  fingers  clenched  in  his 
palms — "a  prayer  to  her  to  bring  them  a  son!" 

Her  lover  turned  away,  distressed,  tormented. 

"  Oh ! "  he  said  brokenly,  ' '  what  a  fool  I  've  been ! "  It 
is  almost  the  oldest  of  the  man-cries,  almost  as  old  as 
"I  love  you"  and  "I  take  you  for  my  own." 

Nang  Ping  ran  to  him,  crying,  "  Oh !  how  I  love  you, 
Basil !  I  want  to  fill  my  hands  with  happiness  to  pou? 


72  MR.  WU 

it  at  your  feet.  Do  you  know  how  my  mother  died? 
She  died  when  she  bore  me  to  her  lord  my  father.  And 
I  would  gladly  die  so,  only  the  child  must  be  a  son,  to 
worship  at  your  grave  and  to  teach  his  sons  and  his 
sons'  sons  to  worship  so."  The  pretty,  delicate  creature 
clung  to  him  in  an  ecstasy  of  devotion,  all  her  fresh 
womanhood  dedicated  to  him,  and  then  she  laughed 
softly,  pressed  her  hands  together  in  a  lightened  mood. 
"  Oh !  I  would  gather  the  dew  from  the  cherry  blossoms 
to  bathe  me  in  its  scent,  to  make  me  more  beautiful  to 
thee!"  And  this,  too,  was  an  old,  old  cry,  as  old  as 
woman-sex. 

"You  see  me,  Lord  Bassanio,  where  I  stand, 
Such  as  I  am:   though  for  myself  alone 
I  would  not  be  ambitious  in  my  wish, 
To  wish   myself  much  better;    yet,   for   you 
I  would  be  trebled  twenty  times  myself." 

A  girl  in  Belmont  put  it  so,  in  a  dream  a  man 
dreamed  beneath  an  English  mulberry  tree.  And  girls 
have  said  it  countless  times,  each  girl  after  her  own  sweet 
fashion,  and  men  have  accepted  it,  some  in  manhood 
splendidly,  some  in  dastardy  cravenly.  Basil  accepted  it 
in  shame,  drinking  the  bitter  cup  of  his  selfish  brewing. 

"But,"  he  said,  bending  over  her  tenderly  as  she 
clung  to  him,  ''you  are  as  beautiful  as  the  cherry  blos 
som  itself,  Nang  Ping." 

She  bent  back  and  looked  up  searchingly  into  his 
face,  and  then  she  broke  away  and  danced  a  little  from 
him,  as  if  too  quick  with  her  own  joy  to  stand  longer 
still.  "And  as  happy  as  heaven!"  she  cried.  "Ah! 
and  when  they  see  me,  will  they  not  guess  ? ' ' 

"Oh!  but  you  mustn't  let  them;  you  must  not,"  his 
answer  came  quickly. 

She  shook  her  head  slowly,    "But  I  am  all  happiness 


IN  THE  LOTUS  GARDEN  73 

that  I  cannot  hide."  Then  a  new  thought  caught  and 
frightened  her,  and  she  turned  back  to  him  anxiously. 
"If  they  guessed,  would  they  take  you  from  me?" 

"Why,  yes,"  he  told  her  quickly,  snatching  at  her 
idea;  "they  might — yes — yes — certainly  they  would." 

"Oh,  no,  no!  That  would  kill  me."  She  shuddered 
as  she  spoke. 

He  went  to  her  now,  and  standing  behind  her  put 
his  arms  about  her  again.  "Oh!"  he  said  contritely, 
"you  mustn't  think  so  much  of  me,  Nang  Ping.  You 
were  happy  before — before  you  met  me " 

"But  I  was  only  waiting  for  you  to  come,"  she  said. 

At  that  he  kissed  her.     How  could  he  help  doing  it? 

"I  was  really  only  two  moons  old.  I  was  only  sleep 
ing  and  waiting,  like  those  lotus  flowers,  waiting  for  you 
to  come  and  wake  me.  You  are  my  summer  and  my 
sun." 

"That's  all  very  poetical,  Nang  Ping,"  he  said, 
fondling  at  her  elaborate  and  stiffened  hair,  "but  you 
must  not  take  all  this  too  seriously,  you  know." 

She  broke  away  from  him  at  that,  speaking  wistfully 
as  she  moved.  "I  do  not  understand  you.  You  are 
the  poem  of  my  life  and  the  song  that  sings  in  my 
heart!" 

The  man's  face  darkened  with  trouble.  He  was  in 
deed  troubled.  But  still  he  spoke  kindly,  and  he  went 
to  her  and  caressed  her  lightly,  soothingly,  as  he  said, 
"Listen,  Celeste." 

"Ah!"  the  girl  cried,  "you  gave  me  that  name.  That 
makes  me  yours.  I  am  Nang  Ping  no  more." 

"Listen,  Celeste" — at  a  change,  a  chilliness  in  his 
tone,  she  stiffened  a  little;  it  is  so  most  women  face  a 
blow — "my  people  are  going  home — father,  mother,  my 
sister  Hilda " 


74  MR.  WU 

' '  So  soon ! ' '  But  her  face  brightened,  in  spite  of  her 
self,  as  she  said  it;  it  was  not  such  very  bad  news  after 
all.  "How  can  they  bear  to  leave  you?"  she  added 
wonderingly. 

"  They  can't,"  Gregory  said  desperately.  She  did 
indeed  stiffen  then.  And  there  was  piteous  accusation 
in  her  eyes.  But  she  said  nothing;  and  presently  ha 
went  on  lamely  enough,  "and  that  is  what  I  had  to  tell 
you." 

'"You — you  are  leaving  me?"  the  girl  said  very 
quietly. 

"I  must." 

"But,"  she  said  intensely,  "you  will  not  go.  You 
will  tell  them  that  you  cannot  go — now!" 

He  must  have  understood  her  then,  if  he  had  failed, 
as  he  had  tried  to  fail,  to  do  so  before.  "I  couldn't  tell 
them  about  you,  dear."  Poor  wretch!  it  was  the  best 
that  he  could  find  to  say.  "With  us,  things  like  that 
are  not  so  easy,"  he  added  weakly. 

"But  you  could  tell  them  that  you  cannot  leave  me," 
Nang  Ping  pleaded.  "You  must  tell  them  that,"  she 
whispered  desperately. 

"But  I  am  not  leaving  you  forever,  little  one,"  the 
man  faltered.  ' '  England  is  not  many  weeks  from  here. ' ' 

"Yes,  but  I  cannot  follow  you!" 

Follow  him!  The  heavens  forbid!  "No,  of  course 
not,"  he  said  quickly,  "of  course  not,  you  silly  little 
Celeste.  But  I  shall  come  back.  Some  day,  when  you 
least  expect  me,  I  shall  be  here  in  the  lotus  garden  or  in 
the  pagoda." 

"The  pagoda!"  she  moaned. 

"The  pagoda,"  he  hurried  on,  "where  we  learned  to 
love."  He  tried  to  draw  her  to  him,  but  she  recoiled. 
"No,  not"  she  cried  hotly.  "If  the  bird  of  love  once 


IN  THE  LOTUS  GARDEN  75 

leaves  its  nest,  the  nest  grows  cold."  And  then  she 
broke  quite  down  and  threw  herself  sobbing  on  the  steps 
of  the  bridge. 

"Oh,  Celeste!"  Basil  Gregory  said  wretchedly, 
humbly — he  was  humbled,  for  the  hour  at  least,  and 
wretchedly  uncomfortable — ' '  I — I  didn  't  know  your  love 
could  mean  so  much,  but — but — oh !  well,  don 't  you  see  ? 
— won't  you  see? — even  if  I  didn't  go  it  could  not  last 
forever,  this."  That  was  bad  and  crude  enough;  but 
he  went  on  and  made  it  worse  (such  men  usually  do). 
"I — I  am  not  a  mandarin  in  my  own  country,  not  even 
the  son  of  one ;  and  you  know  you  are  to  marry  a  man 
darin  here  in  your — your  own  country. ' '  (He  had  heard 
that  more  than  once  in  Hong  Kong;  and  really  he  had 
supposed  she  knew  he  knew.  It  was  commonly  known. 
And  many  wondered  why  Wu  Li  Chang  had  let  it  wait 
so  long.) 

Nang  Ping  looked  up  at  him,  her  narrow  eyes  wide 
with  horror.  "Not  now!"  she  said  tensely.  "And 
when  I  tell  my  august  father  why,  he  will  kill  me,"  she 
added  as  quietly. 

"You — tell  him  why?"  the  man  cried  in  consterna 
tion. 

"Yes,  beca  ise  now  I  do  not  wish  to  live." 

' '  You  musl  not  tell  him ! "  he  said  roughly. 

' '  Only  whf  n  you  are  gone,  or  he  would  kill  you  too ! ' ' 
Nang  said,  simply  and  without  bitterness.  The  Eng 
lishman  winced.  "He  will  ask  me  why  I  disobey  him, 
and  I  shall  toll  him." 

"Don't  do  that — not  that!  I  couldn't  have  it  on  my 
conscience!"  And  indeed  he  tried  to  believe  that  he 
said  it  for  her  sake.  "Keep  our  secret,  Celeste,"  he 
begged.  "Think  of  the  perils  we  have  run  whilst  he 
was  here" — the  Chinese  girl  smiled  a  little  at  that 


76  MR.  WU 

wanly — "of  the  happiness  we  have  had  when  he  has 
been  away,  as  he  is  now.  Tell  him  nothing,  for  fear, 
for  fear,  dear,  that  when  I  came  back  we  should  never 
again  be  able  to  meet." 

"You  will  never  come  back." 

"I  will,  Celeste — I  swear  it!  I  swear  it  now!  I  see 
things  differently." 

"You  will  never  come  back."  She  turned  slowly, 
and  without  looking  back  went  on  into  the  house. 

"Celeste,  come  back!  Nang  Ping!  Nang  Ping!"  he 
called,  and  she  knew  that  he  was  calling  her  to  say  at 
least  good  night,  as  was  their  custom,  in  the  pagoda. 
But  she  neither  slowed  her  quiet  step  nor  turned  her 
head.  The  pagoda  had  sheltered  her  happiness ;  it  should 
not  be  soiled  by  her  despair.  She  went  on  and  left  him 
standing  alone  by  the  lotus  lake. 

He  waited  there  a  while,  confident  that  she  would 
come  back  to  him;  but  presently,  convinced  that  she 
would  not  come  that  night,  or  perhaps  could  not,  he  went 
stealthily  away,  very  sorry  for  himself  and  not  a  little 
vexed  with  Nang  Ping:  the  offender  is  easily  vexed. 

Low  Soong  came  from  the  coign  of  watch,  looking 
after  him  curiously,  and  wondering  what  had  happened. 
She  had  s*en  little  and  heard  nothing,  but  she  sensed 
trouble  in  the  air.  Basil  did  not  turn  or  speak  to  her, 
and  when  he  had  gone  she  passed  slowly  into  the  house. 

There  was  not  a  sound  in  the  garden.  The  darkness 
had  come.  Nothing  was  visible  except  the  gay  lanterns 
and  many  lamps  lit  on  the  walls  and  at  the  house-door, 
and  in  the  deserted  garden  itself  the  vivid  pulse  of  the 
glow-worms  poised  on  shrubs  and  trees  or  winging  bril 
liantly  through  the  purple  night. 


CHAPTER  XII 
O  CURSE  OF  ASIA! 

DO  you  know  Hong  Kong ?     If  not,  you  are  poor  with 
poverty  indeed.     Except  in  China  earth  has  no 
lovelier  spot,  and  heaven  itself  needs  none.     The  interior 
of  the  island  is  almost  bleak,  not  beautiful,  but  its  edge 
is  paradise. 

Other  unknown  wonder-places  you  may  a  little  learn 
from  books,  from  travelers  and  from  pictures,  but  not 
Hong  Kong.  No  words  can  in  the  least  describe  it.  The 
attempt  is  an  impertinence.  Canvas  and  camera  are 
useless  too.  "Hong  Kong,"  the  gazetteers  say,  means 
"Fragrant  Streams"  or  "Place  of  Sweet  Lagoons." 
But  they  are  absurd.  "Hong  Kong"  means  "superbly 
beautiful."  If  you  know  it,  your  eyes  have  been  en 
riched  forever.  Climb  the  Peak,  feathered  with  fern 
and  bamboos,  you  are  enwalled  in  beauty.  Go  far  along 
the  island  by-ways,  beauty  leans  toward  you  from  every 
side,  and  beckons  you  on  and  still  on.  Pause  on  the 
bamboo-outlined  path  that  bisects  the  great  amphi 
theater  of  Happy  Valley,  and  you  may  bathe  your  spirit 
and  your  sight  in  beauty,  whether  you  look  to  the  right, 
where  the  graves  of  European  dead  in  China  rest  beneath 
their  sumptuous  coverlets  of  flowers,  or  to  the  left,  where 
the  Chinese  jockeys,  with  their  blue  petticoats  tucked  up 
above  their  brown  hips,  and  their  bright  satin  jackets 
showing  up  their  dancing  cues,  and  English  boys  in 
regimental  colors — gentlemen  riders — canter  neck  to 

77 


78  MR.  WU 

neck  on  the  race-course,  rehearsing  the  ponies  for  to-mor. 
row's  race. 

It  is  a  unique  juxtaposition,  that  sweet  and  perfumed 
bit  of  God's  acreage,  and  the  lurid,  teeming  race-course, 
the  dead  men's  bones  (and  women's,  too,  and  babes') 
just  under  the  grass,  and  the  betting,  straining,  cham 
pagne-drinking,  well-dressed  crowd,  with  only  a  narrow 
strip  of  yellow,  bamboo-fringed  path  between;  unique 
as  is  the  old  juxtaposition  of  life  and  death,  and,  too, 
strangely  eloquent  and  appropriate  of  Anglo-Chinese 
life. 

Hong  Kong!  Heaven  and  Hell  in  one.  Hong  Kong 
a  gem  of  lovely,  laughing  China  given  to  Britain — or, 
perhaps,  loaned  for  a  century  or  two.  Wu  often  won 
dered  which. 

Every  light  in  Victoria  seemed  twinkling  hard  as 
Basil  Gregory's  boat  gained  the  shore,  a  lamp  in  every 
window,  a  thousand  painted  paper  lanterns,  no  two 
shaped  or  colored  alike,  swaying  ambiently  in  the  hands 
of  coolies  who  trotted  along  the  bund  and  up  the  hill 
paths,  along  the  Bowen  Road  and  peak-climbing  streets, 
carrying  chairs,  pulling  rickshaws,  or  running  errands, 
uninterested  but  faithful,  the  most  reliable  hirelings  on 
earth,  and  often,  when  the  European  employer  gives 
himself  half  a  chance  with  them,  the  most  devoted. 

Basil  walked  some  distance  from  the  spot  where  he 
had  landed  before  he  hailed  a  rickshaw.  The  naked 
coolie  grunted  a  little  at  the  address  the  Englishman 
gave  him,  but  said  grimly,  ' '  Can  do. ' '  For  Gregory  had 
named  a  bungalow  that  nestled  in  a  tiny  grove  of  per 
simmon  and  loquat  trees,  nearly  halfway  up  the  Peak 
— and  Hong  Kong  Peak  is  steep. 

It  was  not  his  home  address  that  he  had  given,  nor 
that  of  any  club  respectable  or  otherwise,  or  tree-hidden 


O  CURSE  OF  ASIA!  79 

wayside  tea-house,  but  the  bungalow  of  a  man  he  had 
treated  none  too  well,  and  to  call  upon  whom  this  was 
an  odd  hour. 

In  our  moments  of  greatest  personal  dilemma  and 
peril  we  seek  the  strangest  confidants :  sometimes  in  half- 
crazed  desperation,  sometimes  in  shame  and  fear  of 
our  nearer  and  dearer,  sometimes  instinctively,  and  then 
oddly  often  it  proves  well  done.  But  whatever  the  most 
general  explanation,  most  of  us  are  prone  at  such  tremu 
lous  times  to  lean  upon  some  one  not  of  our  constant  or 
closest  entourage. 

Basil  Gregory  had  little  estimate  of  Wu's  position 
and  power,  and  none  at  all  of  Chinese  character.  But 
he  had  heard  something  of  Wu,  of  course,  and  had  read 
unconsciously  something  of  her  father  between  the  pretty 
lines  of  Nang  Ping's  gilded  home  life,  and  the  young 
fellow  realized  that  he  was  in  personal  peril,  though  he 
had  not  the  least  impression  of  how  much. 

He  knew  that  he  needed  advice  and  a  sounder  judg 
ment  than  his  own. 

His  mother  was  his  chum,  and  had  been  from  his 
birth — they  had  stood  together  and  pulled  together  al 
ways;  but  he  could  not  take  this  to  his  mother.  And 
he  hoped  to  goodness  it  need  not  reach  his  father's  ear. 
He  feared  his  father's  anger  far  less  than  he  did  his 
mother's  sorrow,  and  he  divined  that  the  paternal  anger 
would  be  nine-tenths  financial  and  not  more  than  one- 
tenth  moral.  But  such  an  escapade  as  his  was  calculated 
to  injure  a  business  that  depended  considerably  upon  a 
nice  balance  of  British  interests  and  Chinese  industrious- 
ness  and  acquiescence.  And  the  elder  Gregory  could 
be  nasty  at  times,  and  disconcertingly  close-fisted  too. 
Certainly  he  could  turn  to  neither  parent  now.  He  was 
not  brave,  but  he  certainly  would  have  thrown  himself 


8o  MR.  WU 

into  Hong  Kong  harbor  or  into  the  deadlier  foaming 
rapid  of  Tsin-Tan  rather  than  have  had  his  mother  know 
the  truth  about  Nang  Ping. 

In  his  schooldays  he  had  made  half  friends,  half  foes 
with  a  boy  a  few  years  his  senior,  whose  influence,  the 
little  way  it  had  gone,  had  all  been  to  the  good  for 
Basil. 

Basil  had  not  done  well  at  school  or  at  'Varsity.  But 
'Varsities  are  fairly  used  to  that,  and  are  built  of  long- 
suffering  stuff,  and  young  Gregory's  shortcomings  had 
not  over-mattered  at  Queen's.  But  at  school — a  nice 
school,  strictly  run — he  had  been  in  serious  trouble  more 
than  once,  and  once  had  been  saved  from  expulsion  by 
Jack  Bradley,  and  at  some  sacrifices  on  Bradley 's  part. 

Both  the  school  and  the  'Varsity  had  been  rather 
inappropriately  selected.  Basil  came  of  commercial 
stock  and  was  dedicated  to  a  commercial  life,  and  com 
mercial  life  of  a  sort  for  which  a  few  years'  business 
training  in  Chicago  would  have  been  more  useful  prepa 
ration  than  any  amount  of  term-keeping  at  Oxford. 
But  Gregory  the  father,  who  had  had  a  very  limited  ed 
ucation,  was,  as  is  usual  with  such  men  of  means,  ob 
sessed  that  his  son  should  have  the  public-school  and 
'Varsity  hallmark  that  he  himself  lacked.  And  Mrs. 
Gregory  had  wished  it  no  less  ardently.  She  had  Oxford 
associations  in  her  blood  and  of  her  girlhood,  and  her 
own  father  had  worn  an  Oxford  hood  and  held  a  modest 
incumbency  near  the  town. 

Basil  Gregory  learned  some  of  the  prescribed  lessons 
at  public  school :  he  had  to.  And  he  might  have  learned 
something  of  books  and  other  erudite  lore  at  Oxford,  for 
they  do  teach  at  the  'Varsities  any  one  who  insists  upon 
being  taught.  But  Basil  had  not  insisted,  and  left  Ox 
ford  knowing  a  little  less  than  when  he  went. 


O  CURSE  OF  ASIA!  81 

Bradley  had  been  at  Queen's,  .but  had  worked  while 
Basil  played,  and  such  intimacy  as  had.  been  between 
them  died  away,  naturally  enough,  in  the  wider  life  and 
the  greater  individual  freedom  and  scope  of  'Varsity. 
But  they  had  met  sometimes ;  and  once  Bradley  had  been 
of  great  service  to  Gregory. 

"When  Basil  had  reached  Hong  Kong  a  year  ago,  John 
Bradley  had  been  serving  there  for  some  time  as  a  curate 
in  the  Cathedral  Church  of  St.  John. 

The  young  priest  had  held  out  an  eager,  friendly  hand 
at  once,  but  Basil  had  almost  ignored  it.  It  was  shabby 
of  him,  and  he  knew  it  at  the  time.  He  knew  that  the 
other's  overtures  were  not  in  the  least  to  the  rich  ship 
owner's  son,  but  altogether  to  an  old  schoolmate  newly 
come  to  a  foreign  country. 

The  priest — he  lived  quite  alone — was  just  sitting 
down  to  his  solitary  dinner  when  Basil's  rickshaw  came 
through  the  gate,  ran  up  the  path  between  the  tall  lychee 
trees,  and  stopped  at  the  door. 

The  older  man  gave  the  younger  the  cordial  greeting 
of  their  old  days,  and  added,  "Come  and  eat.  Oh!  but 
you  must.  I'm  famished." 

And  Basil  sat  down,  both  glad  and  sorry  to  postpone 
even  by  half  an  hour  the  unpleasant  tale  he  had  come  to 
tell. 

The  priest  was  no  anchorite,  and  his  simple  food  was 
good,  his  wine  sound.  Both  had  their  flattering  tonic 
effect  upon  the  easily  influenced  peccant,  and  as  he  ate 
and  drank  his  misdemeanor  dwindled  away  in  his  own 
eyes,  until  almost  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  been 
more  sinned  against  than  sinner. 

But  it  seemed  nothing  of  the  sort  to  John  Bradley, 
and  it  was  soon  evident  as  Gregory  unfolded  his  errand 
while  they  smoked  on  the  tiny  balcony  that  jutted  out 


82  MR.  WU 

into  the  begonias  and  laburnums  of  the  little  garden. 
The  priest  was  sorrowful,  but  the  man  was  furious. 
"With  some  effort  he  heard  the  other  through,  and  then 
he  ripped  out  an  ugly  oath. 

The  visitor  was  astonished.  Old  John  had  always 
been  a  bit  particular,  of  course — had  to,  don 't  you  know, 
and  all  that — but  a  man  of  the  world  and  a  thorough 
good  sort.  And  this  was  not  the  first  confession  his 
schoolfellow  had  made  to  him. 

"I  say,  easy  all,"  Gregory  protested.  "I  wish  it 
hadn't  happened" — you  nearly  always  do — "but  you 
needn't  play  Peter  Prigg.  It  isn't  one  of  your  flock. 
The  girl's  a  nice  little  girl.  I'm  fond  of  her,  I  tell  you. 
But  she  isn't  one  of  your  reserved  flock.  She's 
Chinese " 

"Oh,  hell  and  damnation!"  interrupted  Bradley, 
striking  the  well-built  railing  with  a  fist  so  angry  that 
the  interlaced  bamboos  quivered  and  shook,  "that's  the 
infamy  of  it.  If  you  had  to  be  a  beast,  don't  you  see 
how  much  less  loathsome  you'd  have  been  if  you  had 
seduced  some  girl  of  your  own  race  ? ' ' 

The  other  was  too  dumbfounded  to  reply,  and  the 
priest  pounded  on:  "O  curse  of  Europe!  That  such 
men  as  you  pour  into  Asia  and  do  this  damnable  thing ! 
You  '11  boil  in  oil  for  this.  You  insufferable  ass !  Don 't 
you  realize  in  the  least  who  and  what  her  father  is? 
You  might  better  have  affronted  Tze-Shi  herself.  Boil 
in  oil,  I  tell  you,  and,  by  God,  so  you  ought !  If  it  were 
not  for  your  mother,  I  'd  help  Wu  to  heat  it.  How  would 
you  like  some  Chinese  man  to  do  to  your  sister  what 
you  have  done  to  this  girl  ?  Oh !  you  needn  't  spring  up 
like  that.  You'll  not  put  a  finger  to  me.  I  could  pitch 
you  over  there,  down  to  the  road  a  thousand  feet  below, 
and  for  half  a  string  of  counterfeit  cash  I'd  do  it  too. 


O  CURSE  OF  ASIA!  83 

Oh !  Basil,  old  chap,  how  could  you,  how  could  you " 

"Well,"  sulkily,  ''I'm  not  the  first." 

"No,"  brokenly,  "and  you'll  not  be  the  last.  And 
where  will  it  end,  where  will  it  end ! ' ' 

"I  thought  you " 

"Oh!  I  don't  mean  where  will  this  special  case  end 
— for  you  and  for  that  poor  child  I  know  how  it  will 
end — but  how  will  it  all  end? — the  putrid  inter-racial 
welter  and  tangle  that  we  Christians  have  made !  And 
we — misunderstanding  China,  spoiling  China,  insulting 
her  people,  fattening  on  her  industry — we,  we  English 
call  ourselves  men !  We  push  our  way  into  China.  We 
laugh  at  everything  she  holds  sacred,  mock  what  we 
should  admire,  condemn  what  we  lack  the  brain  to 
understand,  spit  on  a  culture  four  thousand  years  older 
and  in  a  good  deal  as  much  deeper  and  more  sincere  than 
ours,  we  steal  what  we  want — oh,  yes!  it's  just  that, 
most  of  it — we  teach  her  boys  to  smoke  opium,  we  show 
her  a  dozen  new  corruptions,  teach  her  twenty  new  sins, 
we  seize  and  spill  her  thimbleful  of  saki  and  give  her  a 

tumbler  of  brandy,  and  her  women — her  women " 

he  broke  off. 

The  other  man  winced  now.  He  knew  there  were 
tears  in  Bradley 's  eyes,  perhaps  on  his  face.  Just  once 
before  he  had  known  John  in  tears,  and  he  thought  of 
it  now,  a  never-to-be-forgotten  radiant  summer  day 
when  a  young  boy,  an  only  child,  had  been  publicly 
expelled  from  school  for  the  saddest  of  young  crimes — 
the  one  crime  that  even  the  laxest  of  our  public  schools 
neither  forgive  nor  condone — and  sent  broken  home  to 
his  mother,  a  widow. 

"You'd  like  to  throttle  me  when  I  dare  say,  'How 
would  you  like  it,  what  would  you  think  of  it  then,  if  a 
Chinese  man  treated  your  sister  as  you  have  treated  this 


84  MR.  WU 

Chinese  girl?'  Well,  I  say  it  again — and  I  hold  your 
sister  very  dear — I  say  it  again.  And  I  say  more :  I  say, 
'Why  notf  You  have  set  the  example — you  and  some 
generations  of  Christian  gentlemen !  And  I  tell  you  the 
day  of  reckoning  will  come. ' '  With  a  gesture  of  despair 
he  picked  up  his  discarded  pipe  and  filled  it  with  nice 
men's  opium — tobacco. 

When  he  had  lit  his  pipe,  Bradley  sat  and  pulled  at 
it  moodily,  and  for  a  while  Basil,  thrashed  and  sore,  sat 
and  watched  him.  But  the  prick  of  personal  dilemma 
could  not  give  way  long  to,  or  even  be  dwarfed  by,  any 
thought  of  a  general  tragedy,  be  it  as  great  and  terrible 
even  as  Bradley  averred. 

"You  said  you  knew  how  this  was  going  to  end  for 
me " 

"And  for  her!  Yes.  It  began  in  selfishness.  It  will 
go  on,  forever,  in  misery.  It  will  end  in  misery.  But 
there  is  just  one  thing  now.  A  crime  can  never  be 
so  damned  black  that  it  can't  be  made  blacker.  Yours 
is  black  enough,  and  it  is  going  to  stop  right  there.  You 
must  marry  her." 

"I  say " 

"You  needn't.  There  is  nothing  for  you  to  say;  you 
have  come  to  me  for  help,  and  I  am  going  to  help  you, 
as  far  as  I  can." 

"But " 

"Oh!  there'll  be  trouble — plenty  of  trouble.  Wu  will 
never  forgive  you  or  the  poor  child;  though  it's  he  him 
self  he  ought  not  to  forgive  for  having  let  a  Chinese 
girl  out  and  unwatched  so  with  us  English  about.  He  '11 
punish  you  both,  and  what  Wu  does  he  does  well. 
There'll  be  no  escaping  him.  No  boat  will  take  you  be 
yond  his  reach,  no  spot  on  earth  hide  you.  You  can't 
stay  in  China  with  her.  Her  position  would  be  too  in- 


O  CURSE  OF  ASIA!  85 

tolerable,  even  for  one  of  us  to  inflict  on  a  woman.  You 
must  take  her  to  England — if  you  can  get  there.  And 
even  if  "Wu  lets  you  do  the  best  you  can  with  the  mon 
strous  mess  you  Ve  made  of  life  for  youT*self  and  for  her, 
you  '11  both  be  miserable  there,  but  not  quite  so  miserable 
as  you'd  be  in  China.  England  is  the  one  country  on 
earth  where  the  Eurasian,  the  poor  innocent  mongrel 
result  of  such  conduct  as  yours,  is  treated  a  little  better 
than  contagion  and  vermin.  Think  what  chance  your 
children  would  have  here !  You  have  seen  such  children 
here,  and  how  they  fare!" 

Little  as  he,  in  common  with  most  of  his  race,  had 
troubled  to  observe  in  Asia,  Basil  Gregory  knew  well 
enough  how  those  half-European,  half-Chinese  were  de 
spised  and  treated  in  Hong  Kong,  and  how  much  more 
despised  by  the  Chinese  than  by  the  Europeans.  And 
he  knew  too — though  not  so  thoroughly  as  Bradley  did — 
that  to  the  Chinese  at  least  such  Eurasians  were  doubly 
despised  when  born  in  wedlock.  The  Chinese  mind  has 
some  contemptuous  shrug  of  ' '  n  'importe ' '  for  such  racial 
misdemeanor  that  is  unaffectedly  wanton,  but  to  that 
mind  marriage  makes  the  gross  miscarriage  ten  times 
more  putrid.  Such  few  attempts  at  European-Chinese 
marriage  as  are  braved  in  China  are  between,  almost 
always,  European  men  and  Chinese  women.  Exiled,  the 
Chinese  will  marry  and  treat  well  and  honorably  the 
women  of  the  race  of  the  place  in  which  he  lives — he 
does  it  in  Singapore,  in  Chicago  and  in  Rio — but  never 
for  him  such  mixed  marriage  in  China. 

Basil  had  no  intention  of  making  the  experiment  in 
China  or  otherwise.  Escape,  not  atonement,  was  his  in 
tention. 

"Yes,"  he  said  presently,  "and  if  only  for  that  reason, 
the  children,  don't  you  see  that  it  would  better  end  here 


86  MB.  WU 

and  now?  At  the  worst — now — one.  But  if — if  I  did 
marry  Nang  and  take  her  to  England,  there  might  be 
others. ' ' 

Bradley  groaned.  "It  is  all  very  difficult.  The  con 
sequences  of  wrong  always  are.  I  don't  see  my  way. 
You  must  let  me  think  a  bit;  perhaps  to-morrow  I'll 
see  what's  best,  least  bad!"  He  groaned  again,  but  he 
did  not  tell  Gregory  that  it  had  just  occurred  to  him 
that  legal  marriage  without  Wu's  consent  might  prove 
impossible.  Wu's  consent  would  never  be  had,  he 
thought.  They  solve  such  problems  differently  in  China. 
They  cut  them. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
MRS.  GREGORY 

ON  one  point,  and  on  just  one,  John  and  Basil  had 
agreed  last  night :     Mrs.  Gregory  was  to  be  spared 
as  much  as  possible.     She  and  Hilda  were  to  remain 
happily  ignorant  of  what  had  happened — ignorant  of  it 
in  its  worst  form,  if  that  could  be  compassed. 

Basil  had  carefully  omitted  telling  the  clergyman  of 
the  proposed  visit  of  the  morrow.  He  would  have  can 
celled  it  if  he  could  have  thought  of  any  way.  But 
he  had  not  a  devisive  brain.  His  mother  had  quite  set 
her  heart  on  the  excursion.  He  felt  safe  that  he  could 
trust  to  Nang  Ping's  pride.  Her  pride  would  carry  her 
through,  and  save  and  screen  him,  as  such  outraged 
womanly  pride  has  saved  and  screened  such  men  ever 
since  Eve  gave  an  apple  to  a  man  in  Eden. 

In  this  episode  of  Nang  Ping  (a  little  nefarious  episode 
of  his  life;  the  soul-crux,  the  supreme  tragedy  of  the 
girl's)  Basil  Gregory  cut  the  sorriest  figure,  for  he  had 
but  toyed  with  her,  he  had  indulged  passion,  passion 
had  not  mastered  him,  she  was  his  toy,  he  her  god; 
he  felt  tenderness  for  her,  but  not  love;  he  had  not  the 
great  excuse  of  a  great  love.  His  lingering  by  the  sun 
drenched  lotus  pond  and  in  the  scented  dark  of  the  old 
pagoda  had  been  mere  dalliance,  not  obsession.  And 
yet  the  young  Englishman  was  not  all  bad — far  from 
that.  To  no  one  do  the  wise  lines  of  the  "Western  genius 
apply  more  closely: 

37: 


88  MR.  WU 

"In  men,  whom  men  proclaim  divine, 
I  find  so  much  of  sin  and  blot; 
In  men,  whom  men  condemn  as  ill, 
I  find  so  much  of  goodness  still — 
I  hesitate  to  draw  the  line 

Between  the  two  where  God  has  not." 

There  is  a  streak,  at  least,  of  angel  in  most  women 
and  in  all  men.  Basil  had  a  rich  vein  of  angel.  All  that 
was  best  in  him  leapt  to  his  mother.  They  had  been 
sweethearts  from  the  first.  Such  love  as  he  had  loved  as 
yet  was  hers.  It  was  a  chivalrous  love,  and  passionate. 
The  other  primal  love,  the  love  of  man  for  his  mate, 
might  come  to  him:  probably  it  would;  it  comes  to 
most,  but  it  would  never  equal  the  love  he  bore  his 
mother.  No  other  woman  would  ever  be  to  him  half  that 
his  mother  was,  or  have  from  him  half  that  he  gave  her. 

Mothers  that  are  loved  so  can  face  most  sorrows  with 
some  buoyancy.  This  mother  had  sorrow,  and  she 
fronted  it  almost  blithely. 

Between  these  two,  in  a  very  beautiful  sense,  the 
spiritual  umbilical  cord  had  never  been  cut,  and  never 
would  or  could  be  cut. 

She  appealed  to  him  in  a  dozen  ways.  She  was 
gifted  with  youth.  She  laughed  at  the  years,  and  they 
laughed  back  at  her  and  caressed  her.  She  looked  his 
own  age,  scarcely  more,  and  some  days,  in  some  moods 
and  in  some  lights,  she  looked  his  junior.  And,  too, 
hers  was  a  radiant  personality.  Her  son  joyed  in  her. 
He  was  proud  of  her,  and  proud  to  be  seen  with  her. 
And  she  gave  him  love  for  love.  But  her  love  for  him 
needs  no  explanation,  nor  merits  one;  he  was  her  boy 
and  her  firstborn. 

The  night  before,  after  Bradley  had  cried,  "I  don't 
see  my  way.  You  must  let  me  think,"  the  two  men 


MRS.  GREGORY  89 

had  sat  silent  for  a  time,  and  then  the  clergyman  had  re- 
begun,  trying  again  to  thrash  it  out,  breaking  nervously 
the  silence  he  himself  had  enjoined.  And  he  had  re 
ferred  again  to  the  hideous  discomfort  of  mixed  mar 
riages. 

The  waters  of  the  Tigris  do  not  mingle  with  the  salt 
water  of  the  sea  until  they  have  flowed  through  it  a 
long,  long  way  from  the  river-mouth.  And  so,  it  seemed 
to  him,  many  suffering  generations  must  pass  before,  if 
ever,  any  marriage  could  in  truth  unite  races  of  East  and 
"West,  or  result  in  descendants  less  than  sorely  unhappy 
and  bitterly  resentful. 

But  marriages  that  tie  the  bloods  of  alien  races  are 
not  the  only  mixed  marriages.  There  are  mixed  mar 
riages  of  another  sort  that  bring  as  much,  perhaps  more, 
discomfort  to  the  two  most  directly  concerned,  although 
they  entail  no  social  inconvenience:  marriages  of  alien 
individualities.  Such  his  mother's  marriage  had  proved, 
and  Basil  sensed  it,  and  that  she  winced  daily.  He  had 
never  definitely  realized  it.  He  had  never  thought  about 
it  clearly.  But  he  felt  it.  And  this  had  roused  all  the 
angel  in  him  to  her  defense,  and  made  him  very  true  and 
knightly  to  her. 

The  daughter  of  a  poor  Oxford  cleric,  Florence  Grey 
had  married  ''surprisingly  well."  Robert  Gregory  was 
rich  even  then,  good-looking,  jovial,  and  to  his  young 
and  pretty  wife  indulgent.  He  was  indulgent  to  her 
still. 

She  had  married  him  quite  gladly,  and  for  a  time 
been  well  enough  content.  But  after  a  year  or  two  the 
sag  had  come  and  the  disillusion.  What  in  him  had 
seemed  once  tonic  and  individuality  came  to  seem 
brusque,  and  even  boorish  at  times.  She  grew  used  to 
silken  raiment  and  spiced  meats,  used  and  a  little  in- 


90  MR.  WU 

different,  though  doubtless  she  would  have  missed  them 
had  she  lost  them,  a  tinge  contemptuous  of  them.  And 
often  in  the  whirl  of  life — in  Manchester,  in  Paris,  in 
Calcutta,  and  now  in  gay  Hong  Kong — she  longed  a  lit 
tle  for  the  Oxford  quiet  and  Oxford  ways,  cool,  green 
lanes,  a  dim  old  church,  a  shabby  old  library,  dim  too, 
full  of  well-worn  books,  simple  usual  things — roast  mut 
ton,  milk  pudding,  and  soft  English  rain,  gray  English 
skies. 

But,  too,  she  enjoyed  life,  and  reaped  from  it  with 
both  hands.  And  her  husband  had  been  and  was  well 
content.  He  had  married  her  for  love,  and  he  loved  her 
still.  But  he  had  had  no  exultation  and  no  opalescent 
anticipations.  And  so,  reasonably  enough,  he  had  suf 
fered  no  relapse.  Such  extremes  of  feeling,  such  quiver 
and  ardor  as  he  had  ever  known,  had  come  to  him  in 
office  and  shipping  yard.  Business  was  his  cult.  And 
so  far  he  had  proved  an  excellent  business  man.  He 
was  perfectly  satisfied  with  himself;  and  it  never  oc 
curred  to  him  that  any  one  else  was  not.  That  would  be 
preposterous,  and  certainly  Florence  was  not  preposter 
ous.  He  was  magnificently  satisfied  with  himself,  and  in 
a  suitably  smaller  way  he  was  satisfied  with  his  wife. 

She  had  given  him  no  cause  to  be  dissatisfied.  And 
they  got  on  well  together.  They  always  had.  She  wort 
well.  She  dressed  well.  She  never  tried  to  understand 
his  business,  or  to  talk  to  him  when  he  was  reading  the 
market  reports  or  the  shipping  news.  She  was  a  hand 
some  creature.  People  liked  her.  And  she  had  borne 
him  two  children.  He  would  have  resented  a  third; 
to  have  had  none  would  have  enraged  him  as  much  as 
if  he'd  been  a  "Chinaman." 

Yes,  Florence  had  done  him  very  well,  and  he  acknowl 
edged  it  to  himself,  and  boasted  of  it  to  all  his  cronies. 


MRS.  GREGORY  91 

And  he  had  done  her  well  too,  by  Jove !  He  was  always 
kind  to  her.  He  let  her  have  her  own  way  absolutely 
when  her  way  did  not  cross  his,  and  their  ways  too  rarely 
met  (in  any  soul-sense)  to  cross  often.  And  he  was 
generous  to  her.  He  began  that  way,  and,  it  is  no  little 
to  the  credit  of  so  busy  and  business-bound  a  man,  he 
had  always  kept  it  up.  They  had  been  married  twenty- 
five  years,  and  he  bought  flowers  for  her  still.  And 
jewelry  he  gave  her  constantly.  No  woman,  unless  she 
was  the  wife  of  a  rich  noble  or  a  millionaire,  had  more 
good  jewelry. 

Mr.  Gregory  had  given  his  wife  some  good  jewelry 
for  a  wedding  present.  But  the  handsomest  gifts  she  had 
received  then  had  been  sent  her  by  an  acquaintance  he 
had  never  seen:  a  Chinese  undergrad  who  had  left  Ox 
ford  the  year  before — "damned  rich  Chink,"  as  Robert 
Gregory  expressed  it,  when  he  did  not  put  it  even  more 
chastely,  "a  Rothschild  of  a  nigger." 

The  Chinese  gift,  a  bracelet  of  emeralds  and  turquoise 
and  jacinths  and  pearls,  still  was  the  most  beautiful  and 
the  most  valuable  jewel  Basil  Gregory's  mother  had, 
and  she  wore  it  on  every  occasion  that  justified  such 
splendor.  And  Hilda,  watching  its  green  fire  and  blue 
softness  on  their  mother's  fine  white  arm,  could  but 
wonder  hungrily  whether  it  would  become  ultimately 
the  possession  of  herself  or  of  Basil's  wife. 

"It  is  the  most  beautiful  jewel  I  have  ever  seen," 
John  Bradley  said  when  he  first  saw  it. 

"Yes,  isn't  it?"  its  owner  acquiesced;  "but  when  I 
have  it  on,  I  always  feel  as  if  I  were  wearing  a  bit  of 
Revelation." 

"More  like  a  bit  of  the  Koran,"  the  priest  had  reas 
sured  her  with  an  odd  smile. 

She  was  greatly  puzzled.     She  had  always  supposed 


92  MR.  WU 

the  Koran  was  a  somewhat  indecent  book,  quite  the  sort 
of  book  a  clergyman  would  not  mention  to  a  lady.  She 
resolved  to  get  a  cheap  copy — she  believed  there  were 
cheap  editions;  there  were  of  almost  everything  now — 
the  next  time  she  sent  to  Kelly  and  Walsh's. 

And  this  resolve  was  not  born  of  any  wish  to  sample  a 
questionable  classic,  but  of  a  wish  to  repair  an  injustice 
she  was  regretful  to  have  done  even  to  a  book  or  a  heathen 
faith.  Mrs.  Gregory  was  a  thoroughly  nice  woman. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

NANQ'S  VIGIL 

SING  KUNG  YAH  was  away  temporarily  from  her 
important  post  as  Wu  Nang  Ping 's  chaperone-guard, 
spending  a  few  weeks  of  semi-religious  villeggiatura  in  a 
Taoist  nunnery  with  a  kinswoman  who  was  its  abbess. 

So  powerful  was  Wu's  personality  and  his  wealth 
that  he  had  been  able  to  command  for  his  widowed 
kinswoman  and  for  her  participation  in  the  gala  things 
of  life,  even  from  the  most  conventional  of  his  country 
men,  considerable  courteous  toleration.  But  it  was 
toleration  only,  and  never  approval.  His  influence  was 
enormous.  Every  tong  in  China  would  have  torn  at 
the  vitals  of  any  one  rash  enough  to  exercise  against 
Sing  Kung  Yah  a  social  ostracism  contrary  te  his  wish. 
And  so  the  unprecedented  festivity  of  the  kinswoman's 
widowhood  was  tolerated  even  by  the  Chinese  whom  it 
both  shocked  and  affronted. 

But  anything  more,  or  kindlier,  than  tolerance,  even 
the  great  Wu  was  powerless  to  win  for  her — at  least  from 
the  Chinese.  And  both  he  and  she  knew  this,  and  it 
was  the  one  fly  in  her  very  nice  amber.  She  would  have 
been  ostracized  fiercely  if  those  of  their  own  caste  had 
dared;  but,  they  not  daring,  she  was  tolerated  coldly. 
And  feeling  it  (approving  it  even  in  her  thoroughly 
Chinese  heart)  she  was  often  glad  to  steal  away  into 
the  quiet,  and  behind  the  screen,  of  the  Taoist  nunnery 
on  the  cool,  far-off  hillside. 

93 


94  MR.  WU 

She  had  quite  a  number  of  English  friends  in  Hong 
Kong  and  at  Sha-mien.  The  English  thought  her  great 
fun,  and  she  was  eagerly  sociable.  And  English  mer 
chants,  anxious  to  conciliate  the  powerful  Wu,  en 
couraged  their  womenkind  to  friendliness  with  his  kins 
woman.  But  she  longed  for  friends  of  her  own  race; 
and  except  Nang  and  Wu  she  had  none.  She  longed  for 
cronies,  and  she  had  not  one,  except  the  Taoist  abbess. 

Strange  that  a  people  so  implacable  to  comforted  and 
comfortable  widowhood  should  be  ruled  by  a  widow! 
But  so  it  is.  And,  after  all,  the  Chinese  race  has  a  right 
to  its  share  of  human  inconsistency.  Tze-Shi  was  an 
Empress,  the  mother  of  a  son,  and  had  a  great  personal 
ity.  Sing  Kung  Yah  had  been  born  a  long  way  from  the 
imperial  yellow,  was  childless,  and  had  little  personality 
of  her  own.  And  so  Nang  Ping,  in  the  sweetest  way^ 
had  run  a  little  wild,  as  roses  and  honeysuckle  do,  and  so 
the  frequent  visits — that  were  something  of  a  skurrying 
too — to  the  Taoist  convent  on  the  hills. 

The  "Wus  were  not  Taoists,  strictly.  Like  most 
Chinese  of  their  class,  they  mingled  a  loyal  observance 
of  the  rites  of  all  three  of  the  great  Chinese  sects  and  an 
anxious  acceptance  of  their  tripled  superstitions,  with  an 
easy  and  respectful  contempt  for  them  all — certainly  for 
all  except  the  Confucianism  that  has  made  and  welded 
China  for  twenty-five  centuries,  but  that  every  Chinese 
of  half  "Wu 's  intelligence  knows  is,  in  fact,  a  magnificent 
irreligion,  a  philosophy,  a  patriotism,  but  no  God-cult. 

In  her  aunt's  absence,  as  well  as  her  father's,  Nang 
Ping  was  absolutely  mistress  of  herself  and  of  all  in  her 
father's  house.  When  she  left  Basil  Gregory  she  had 
closed  the  door  panel  of  her  own  room,  hanging  a  purple 
scarf  in  its  outer  carving,  and  no  one,  not  even  Low 
Soong,  dared  disregard  the  imperative  silken  signal  that 


NANG'S  VIGIL  95 

she  would  be  alone  and  unmolested.  Even  when  the 
gong  brayed  out  the  call  of  evening  rice  she  made  no 
sign.  "Wu  Low  Soong  brought  a  tray  of  food  and  laid  it 
gently  on  the  floor,  with  a  timid  supplicatory  clatter,  be 
neath  the  purple  scarf,  and,  after  listening  a  moment  as 
she  knelt  with  her  hands  still  on  the  tray,  crept  ruefully 
away.  She  had  shared  in  the  outer  edges  of  all  Nang 
Ping 's  love  raptures,  shared  the  dangers  of  the  forbidden 
sweetnesses,  and  it  was  very  hard  to  be  shut  out  from  the 
newer  excitement  of  what  was  evidently  a  jagged  love- 
rift. 

Nang  Ping  lay  very  still  all  night,  uncushioned  and 
uncovered  on  her  polished  floor.  Her  frightened  eyes 
were  closed,  but  she  was  wide  awake — wider  awake  than 
she  had  ever  been  before. 

She  felt  Basil  linger.  She  heard  him  go.  She  heard 
each  night-sound  all  the  night  long.  She  heard  her 
household's  every  stir,  and  heard  it  hush. 

In  the  morning,  before  any  but  the  night-watchman 
stirred,  she  stole  out  into  the  garden  and  wandered  about 
it  aimlessly.  But  she  did  not  enter  the  pagoda. 

While  it  was  still  very  early  she  went  back  to  her  own 
room,  beat  on  her  own  gong,  a  little  burnished  steel  disk, 
summoning  her  women.  And  when  they  hurried  to  her, 
surprised  and  heavy  with  sleep,  she  bathed  and  put  on 
fresh  garments.  It  was  her  habit  to  chatter  gayly  with 
her  women  while  they  dressed  her,  but  to-day  she  scarcely 
spoke  and  they  scarcely  dared  speak.  She  sat  quite 
motionless  in  her  ivory  chair  while  Tieng  Po  dressed  her 
hair.  Tieng  Po  was  one  of  the  cleverest  tire  maids  in 
China,  and  wonderfully  quick.  It  rarely  took  her  more 
than  three  hours  to  do  her  lady's  hair,  and  to-day  she 
did  it  in  even  a  little  less.  But  she  had  never  done  it 
more  elaborately,  and  all  the  time  her  mistress  watched 


96  MR.  WU 

her  with  cold,  critical  eyes.  For  Nang  Ping  had  a  glass, 
a  very  lovely  one  that  Wu  had  bought  in  Venice.  It 
had  been  her  mother's,  and  reflected  more  clearly  and 
with  less  strain  on  the  eyes  than  the  mirrors  that  most 
Chinese  women  consult. 

When  Nang  was  dressed — she  was  very  fine — she  sent 
for  Low  Soong  and  ordered  food. 

The  two  girls  breakfasted  together  in  silence,  and  were 
silent  afterwards  as  they  paced  the  Peacock  Terrace 
together  until  the  sun  was  high  and  cruel.  But  Low 
Soong  began  to  understand,  and  as  each  moment  passed 
understood  more  and  more.  The  women  and  the  peas 
ants  of  no  other  race  chatter  so  much  or  so  incessantly 
as  the  Chinese  do;  only  the  gentlemen  and  the  children 
are  often  still.  But  no  other  race  has  so  little  need  of 
words.  The  Chinese  is  the  psychic  of  all  the  races. 
Even  the  women  have  wizard  minds.  They  are  all  sensi 
tives.  And  as  the  girls  paced  silently,  but  arm  in  arm, 
Low  Soong  learned  it  all. 

In  the  early  afternoon  Basil  contrived  to  send  a  note 
to  Miss  "Wu,  and  it  reached  her  safely.  Indeed,  it  ill 
needed  the  subterfuge  he  spent  upon  its  delivery,  for  its 
few  formal  lines,  saying  that  he  would,  as  promised,  have 
the  honor  to  wait  upon  her  presently,  and  have  the 
pleasure  of  begging  her  acquaintance  for  his  mother  and 
sister,  might  have  been  cried  aloud  from  the  Kowloon 
housetops,  or  published  in  the  Pekin  Gazette  and  the 
Shanghai  Mercury  or  the  Hong  Kong  Telegraph.  Writ 
ten  words  could  not  have  been  less  compromising;  such 
a  love-letter  could  not  have  compromised  a  nun  or  a 
female  fly.  And  it  was  the  last  that  he  would  write  her. 
(It  was  almost  the  first.)  Nang's  little  lip  quivered  as 
she  read  it,  and  she  made  to  tear  it  into  bits;  then  the 


NANG'S  VIGIL  97 

little  painted  lip  quivered  more  piteously,  and  she  thrust 
the  paper  inside  her  robe.  He  had  had  no  need  to 
warn  her.  She  should  play  her  part.  He  might  have 
trusted  her  in  that,  and  in  all. 

She  began  to  think  that  Erglishmen  were  timid.  And 
she  wondered  too  if  they  might  not  be  dense,  some  of 
them,  sometimes. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  MEETING  OF  THE  MOTHERS 

BASIL  GREGORY  had  written  his  formally  couched 
note  of  warning  in  a  fidget.     Nang  Ping  had  no  ex 
perience  of  masculine  fidgets.     She  had  seen  her  country 
women  fidget,  but  never  her  countrymen. 

And  Basil  was  in  a  fidget  still  when  he  came  to  her 
presently,  not  by  stealth  this  time,  no  whistle  heralding 
him,  but  walking  swiftly  from  beyond  the  bridge. 

She  greeted  him  placidly,  too  proud  to  show  the 
hauteur  she  felt  now;  but  Low  Soong  knew  that  Nang 
Ping's  heart  was  fluttering  sickly  under  her  jade  and 
coral  girdle. 

Low  returned  his  greeting  with  a  placid  face,  but  her 
narrow  eyes  were  yellow  with  hate,  and  she  turned  at 
once  and  went  to  her  old  place  of  watch  on  the  bridge. 

"They  will  come  soon?"  Nang  asked. 

"Yes,  they  are  lingering  by  the  big  lake,  in  the  outer 
garden,  and  that  gave  me  the  chance  to  speak  to  you  a 
moment.  Oh !  my  darling. ' '  He  had  been  near  to  hat 
ing  her  as  he  had  been  coming  to  her  across  the  rippling 
water — hating  her  because  he  had  wronged  her,  and  now 
feared  that  he  might  not  escape  quite  all  share  in  her 
punishment ;  but  now,  as  she  stood  there  in  all  her  pretty 
feminine  trappings  among  her  flowers,  he  longed  to  take 
her  into  his  arms.  She  had  never  looked  so  altogether 
desirable  to  him  before — probably  because  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  leave  her,  to  snap  his  life  and  his  years 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  MOTHERS          99 

from  hers.  ' '  Have  you  missed  me  ?  Why  did  you  leave 
me  so  ?  How  are  you,  dear  ? ' ' 

Nang  Ping  smiled  oddly.     She  said  nothing. 

And  Low  Soong  called  from  the  bridge,  "Chillee! 
Chillee!" 

Women's  voices,  deeper  throated  than  Nang's  and 
Low's,  European  voices,  could  be  heard  coming  that  way, 
and  Basil  said  nervously,  "Yes,"  adding  in  English  what 
Low  had  just  said,  "They  are  coming.  I  shall  leave 
them  when  they  are  going — make  some  excuse,  and  I 
shall  go  and  hide  in  the  pagoda  by  the  lake " 

"Oh,  that  pagoda — by  the  lake!"  Nang  Ping  inter 
jected  softly,  but  her  voice  was  grim. 

"I  shall  see  them  pass,  and  when  they  have  quite 
gone  I  will  come  back.  Wait  for  me  when  they  are  gone. 
I  must  speak  to  you.  Remember!"  He  moved  away 
from  her,  and  went  and  stood  beside  an  old  stone  lantern, 
as  if  examining  and  admiring  it  for  the  first  time. 

"Low  Soong!"  Nang  Ping  said  breathlessly,  and  Low 
hurried  to  her  from  the  bridge  and  put  her  arms  about 
her.  And  they  stood  so  for  a  moment. 

But  the  voices  and  the  footsteps  were  close  now,  and 
Nang  Ping  released  herself  from  Low 's  comforting  arms, 
and  stood  gracious  and  alone. 

This  was  one  of  Florence  Gregory's  young  days — one 
of  her  very  youngest.  Still  in  her  early  forties,  she 
looked  a  radiant  twenty-five  as  she  stood  an  instant  on 
the  bridge,  and  then  came  gayly  down  it.  And  her 
radiant  English  beauty — blue  eyes,  golden  hair,  cream 
and  rose  face — looked  all  the  more  radiant  because  of  the 
delicate  gray  of  her  gown — a  dress  of  artificial  simplicity, 
Paris-made.  It  had  not  cost  as  much  as  Chinese  Nang's 
fantastic  clothes  had,  but  it  had  cost  a  great  deal,  and 
it  was  the  more  perishable. 


ioo  MR.  WU 

Hilda  Gregory,  walking  beside  her  mother,  quite  a 
pretty  girl  seen  by  herself,  seemed  in  the  mother's  wake 
rather  than  side  by  side,  though  far  the  more  brightly 
clad,  and  was  a  dim  afterglow  of  the  matron's  glory — as 
Low  Soong,  for  all  her  gay  apparel  and  own  high  color 
ing,  standing  a  little  apart,  seemed  too  of  Nang  Ping's. 
And  Florence  Gregory  looked  as  much  Basil's  sister  as 
Hilda,  who  was  a  few  years  his  junior. 

A  Chinese  serving  woman  followed  the  Gregory  ladies. 
She  was  palpably  Mrs.  Gregory's  maid,  and  not  Hilda's; 
why,  it  is  impossible  to  say,  unless  because  the  mother 
was  unmistakably  of  the  woman-type  to  which  servants 
and  dogs  attach  themselves,  that  claims  them,  and  to 
which  they  belong.  Hilda  Gregory  probably  played 
tennis  and  golf  better  than  her  mother,  and  plied  a 
more  useful  needle;  but  she  buttoned  her  own  boots 
as  naturally  as  it  came  to  the  mother  to  lean  well  back 
at  ease  against  down  cushions  and  have  her  hair  brushed 
by  a  servant.  Ah  Wong,  the  amah,  carried  a  closed 
parasol,  a  costly  European  thing  of  lace  and  mother-o'- 
pearl,  that  would  have  suited  Miss  Gregory's  rose  crepe 
quite  as  well  as  it  did  Mrs.  Gregory's  silver  ninon;  but 
the  sturdy  Chinese  figure,  plainly  clad  in  dark  blue 
cotton,  was  unmistakably  in  attendance  on  the  mother. 

There  were  six  here  now,  not  counting  the  Wu  serv 
ants  moving  on  the  outskirts  of  the  group,  silent  and 
busied.  But  Mrs.  Gregory  and  "Wu  Nang  Ping  held 
the  stage:  English  womanhood  and  Chinese  something 
at  their  best. 

They  made  a  great  contrast  than  which  the  old  beauty- 
packed  garden  had  seen  nothing  prettier:  two  living, 
sentient  expressions  of  womanhood,  greatly  different, 
greatly  alike. 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  MOTHERS        ipi 

Each  was  natural,  each  was  artificial — sweet,  elaborate, 
decorated,  highly  bred. 

Nang  Ping's  face  and  lips  were  painted;  Mrs.  Greg 
ory  's  were  not.  But  her  nails  were  slightly,  beneath  her 
gloves,  and  so  were  Nang's  that  had  never  worn  a  glove. 
Mrs.  Gregory's  eyebrows  were  lightly  penciled.  Nang 
Ping's  were  not.  Nang  Ping's  hair  had  taken  the  longer 
to  dress,  but  the  dressing  of  the  other's  had  cost  an  hour. 
The  black  hair  was  stiffened  into  shape  with  thick 
scented  gum;  the  blonde  hair  was  marceled  into  shape 
by  hot  tongs.  And  Mrs.  Gregory  had  the  slightly 
smaller  feet,  and  far  less  comfortably  shod.  For  Wu  had 
set  his  face  against  one  custom  of  his  country,  and  braved 
the  anger  of  his  ancestors.  Nang  smoked  a  pipe — Basil 
Gregory  could  not  insert  his  smallest  finger-tip  into  its 
tiny  bowl — Florence  Gregory  smoked  cigarettes;  and 
they  both  inhaled  sometimes.  And  each  considered  the 
other  of  inferior  race. 

They  looked  at  each  other  curiously — Mrs.  Gregory 
frankly  so.  Nang  veiled  her  keen  interest.  But  her 
interest  was  the  more.  The  English  woman  was  keenly 
interested  in  China  and  in  things  Chinese.  The  country 
had  fascinated  her  powerfully,  its  odd  people  consider 
ably.  But  she  did  not  take  Chinese  womanhood  very 
seriously.  Every  one  of  intelligence  knew  by  now  that 
many  Chinese  men  were  clever,  almost  hideously  so,  but 
equally  every  one  knew  that  Chinese  women  were  limited 
— very.  Of  course,  the  terrible  old  woman  who  ruled  at 
Pekin  was  shrewd,  unless  her  ministers,  Li  Hung  Chang 
and  the  rest,  did  it  all  for  her,  which  was  probable; 
and  then,  too,  she  wasn't  Chinese  really,  Tartar  not 
Mongol.  And  Mrs  Gregory  had  no  suspicion  of  what 
must  have  interested  her  in  Nang  Ping  indeed.  She  was 


102  MR.  WU 

keener  to  see  the  garden,  and,  if  possible,  the  house — 
it  was  said  to  be  very  wonderful — than  to  exploit  little 
Miss  Wu.  But  she  thought  the  girl  pretty  after  a 
grotesque  Chinese  fashion,  "cute"  and  not  unattractive, 
and  she  looked  at  her  with  sincerely  friendly  eyes. 

The  young  eyes  that  looked  back  at  her  were  mingled 
adoration  and  resentment.  This  was  Basil's  mother,  and 
she  was  like  him.  This  was  the  honorable  mother  who 
had  given  him  life  and  nursed  him  at  her  breast.  And 
this  was  the  woman  because  of  whom  he  was  going  to 
forsake  her,  and  shut  her  out  forever  from  peace,  honor 
and  paradise.  Because  of  this  woman  standing  smiling 
at  her  here  he  forbade  her  Europe  and  joyful  mother 
hood.  And  he  had  shut  her  forever  out  of  China! 
Why?  Oh!  why? 

There  are  three  supreme  moments  in  the  life  of  every 
Chinese  girl  to  whom  the  gods  are  not  hideously  unkind : 
the  moment  when  her  unknown  bridegroom  lifts  up  her 
red  veil  and  looks  upon  her  face — perhaps  to  love  and 
cherish,  perhaps  to  loathe  and  punish ;  the  moment  when 
the  midwife  says,  "Hail,  Lady,  it  is  an  honorable  son," 
and  lays  the  funny  little  red,  squirming  firstborn  on 
her  breast  to  be  adored,  and  always  to  adore  her;  and 
the  moment  when  she  meets  eyes  with  her  husband's 
mother,  and  they  look  a  little  into  each  other's  souls. 
And  this  last  is  the  supreme  moment  of  her  fate.  In  all 
the  small  ways  that  make  up  the  most  of  every  woman's 
life,  her  comfort  and  happiness  will  depend  upon  this 
mother-in-law  even  more  than  upon  her  husband — and 
mothers-in-law  live  long  in  China.  Women  are  the 
pampered  class  in  China,  as  they  are  almost  everywhere, 
and  will  be  until  "new"  hermaphrodite  "movements" 
have  pulled  nature  from  her  throne.  And  in  the  quiet 
ways,  the  ways  that  count,  the  supremacy  of  the  Chinese 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  MOTHERS        103 

mother  is  even  greater  than  the  autocratic  supremacy 
of  the  Chinese  father.  Occidental  readers  may  believe 
this  or  disbelieve  it  as  they  like;  superficial  travelers, 
ill-equipped  for  Asian  sojourn,  may  see  or  miss  it,  but 
the  fact  remains.  Motherhood  has  ruled  China  for  thou 
sands  of  years.  It  is  not  the  fair  young  wife  or  the 
favorite  daughter  who  rules  a  Chinese,  but  his  mother, 
old,  wrinkled,  toothless,  bent.  From  the  thraldom  of  his 
father,  from  the  thraldom  of  his  gods,  he  may  escape; 
from  the  thraldom  of  his  mother,  never!  Nang  Ping 
knew  now  that  she  would  never  wear  the  soft  red  veil. 
That  great  moment  had  been,  and  passed,  for  her  when 
Basil  had  kissed  her  first  in  the  pagoda.  The  child  that 
even  now  just  fluttered  beneath  her  breast — a  son,  she 
thought,  and  surely  blue-eyed — must  die  unborn;  she 
knew  that  now.  He  would  never  purl  and  pull  and  purr 
at  her  exultant  breast.  But  this  was  Basil's  mother,  the 
honorable  grandmother  to  whom  she  had  given  a  first 
grandson !  What  this  moment  might  have  been !  Some 
thing  of  the  agony  of  the  disappointment  gnawing  at 
her  baffled  heart  crept  into  her  narrow  eyes,  and  turned 
her  faint  and  sick,  and  almost  she  swayed  an  instant 
standing  proud  and  gracious  among  her  flowers — and  the 
child  leapt. 

Basil  Gregory  stood  irresolute,  embarrassed,  looking 
from  his  mother  to  Nang  Ping,  from  Nang  Ping  to  his 
mother. 

Mrs.  Gregory  turned  to  him  with  a  happy  smile. 
"Ah!  Basil,  there  you  are." 

"Yes,  Mother,  I  missed  you,"  he  said  as  lightly  as 
he  could,  "and  found  my  way  here  to  make  the  acquaint 
ance  of  Miss  Wu. ' ' 

He  gestured  courteously  toward  Nang  as  he  spoke, 
and  Mrs.  Gregory  moved  to  the  girl  and  held  out  her 


104  MR-  wu 

hand.  Nang  Ping  moved  too,  a  little  towards  her  guest, 
and  made  the  elaborate  gesture,  hands  clasped,  of  Eastern 
greeting.  Mrs.  Gregory  still  held  out  her  hand,  and 
wondered,  when  she  gained  the  girl's,  which  was  the 
softer  or  the  better  kept,  Nang's  or  her  own.  Basil  had 
wondered  it  often. 

"This  visit  to  your  beautiful  garden  is  the  greatest 
treat  I've  had  since  I  arrived  in  China,  Miss  "Wu,"  she 
began. 

Wu  Nang  Ping  bowed.  "I  am  pleased  to  receive  you 
in  my  honorable  father's  absence.  He  has  had  much 
kindness  in  England.  It  is  his  command  that  always 
English  friends  have  most  honorable  welcome  here,  and 
it  gives  me  happiness.  My  cousin,  Low  Soong." 

"How  do  you  do?"  Mrs.  Gregory  said  cordially. 
"And  this  is  my  daughter."  The  three  girls  bowed, 
the  two  Chinese  with  grave  formality,  a  gesture  of  the 
arms  more  than  a  bending. 

"Such  a  perfectly  beautiful  place!"  Mrs  Gregory 
said  it  sincerely,  her  beauty-loving  eyes  here,  there  and 
everywhere  gloating. 

"This  is  my  own  garden,  where  I  walk  with  my 
women,"  Nang  Ping  told  her. 

"It  beats  our  poor  little  garden,  Hilda,"  the  mother 
said  gayly. 

"Into  fits."  Just  a  trifle  of  the  surface  vulgarity 
which,  with  its  hard  coating  of  adamant  varnish,  covered 
and  hid  Robert  Gregory's  soul  side — even  from  his  wife 
— and  wronged  him,  had  caught  and  scorched,  slightly, 
the  delicacy  of  Hilda's  breeding.  Even  Florence  Greg 
ory,  some  rare  times,  used  a  slight  word  of  slang:  "As 
the  husband  is,  the  wife  is." 

Low  Soong  listened  to  Hilda  with  polite  indifference. 
Low  Soong  had  no  English.  But  Nang  Ping  wondered 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  MOTHERS        105 

dully  how  a  garden  could  have  a  fit;  she  thought  an 
epileptic  garden  must  be  very  horrid.  But  she  said 
smoothly,  "Ah!  in  London  you  have  only  walls  and 
roofs,  I  think." 

"You  have  been  there,  Miss  Wu,  of  course?"  Mrs. 
Gregory  asked. 

' '  I  have  never  been  to  any  country. ' ' 

"Really?  But — you  must  excuse  me — but  your  ex 
cellent  English." 

"My  honorable  teacher  was  English.  My  honor 
able  father  knows  it  like  you;  he  has  been  there — to 
Oxford." 

"Really!  I  was  born  at  Oxford.  And  my  son" — 
she  turned  to  him  a  little,  meaning  to  coax  him  into  the 
talk,  and  wondering  to  see  him  stand  so  awkwardly  and 
wordless — he  was  not  often  so  socially  inept,  and  never 
gauche — "my  son  was  there." 

"And  my  honorable  father  has  taught  me  to  esteem 
English  people  because  they  are  all" — she  paused  an 
instant,  but  she  did  not  glance  towards  Basil,  and  added 
with  a  grave,  deferential  smile — "all  honorable  men." 

"Well" — I  Basil's  mother  smiled  too,  a  prettily  pathetic 
smile  which  -ras  half  good  manners  and  half  sincere — 
"I  am  afrai<\  there  are  a  few  exceptions,  sometimes." 
She  went  up  to  her  boy  and  laid  her  hand  fondly  on  his 
arm.  "But" — not  speaking  to  him,  but  still  to  Nang — 
"it  is  the  duty  of  all  Englishmen  to  live  up  to  such  a 
high  reputation." 

"I  must  he  off,  Mother,"  the  man  said  hurriedly, 
releasing  himself  gently, ' '  if  Miss  Wu  will  excuse  me.  I 
thought  Father  was  coming." 

"He  has.  We  left  them  down  by  the  fish-pond,  him 
and  Tom,  talking  to  a  quaint  old  gardener." 

"  Oh !    Well,  I  'in  afraid  I  ought  to  be  off— to  the  office. 


106  MR.  WU 

I'll  go  straight  to  the  hotel  afterwards — dinner  usual 
time?" 

"Of  course,  dear,  unless  you'd  like  it  earlier  or  later. 
Do  you  know,  Basil,  you  haven't  dined  with  us  for 
days?" — Nang  Ping  knew  it.  "I'm  getting  quite  anx 
ious  about  your  health,  dear.  Bother  that  fusty  office! 
You  don 't  seem  a  bit  yourself. ' ' 

Her  boy  laughed  at  her  and  put  his  hand  under  her 
chin.  (And  Nang  Ping  watched  them  curiously.) 
"You  dear — why — I — I'm  as  right  as  rain." 

' '  Then  prove  it,  my  son — a  big  man 's  dinner  at  eight. 
Now,  if  Miss  Wu  will  excuse  you" — for  evidently  he  was 
uncomfortable  here — and  why  not,  the  dear  English 
child?  How  should  he  be  anything  else  in  this  funny 
Chinese  nook  with  these  Chinese  girls?  Probably  he 
could  not  even  see  how  pretty  this  smaller  one  was,  for 
all  her  narrow  eyes  and  absurd,  grotesque  clothes  and 
paint,  and  it  was  plain  that  he  could  not  find  a  word 
to  say  to  either  of  them,  not  even  to  this  one  who  was 
playing  hostess  so  nicely,  and  who  understood  English 
and  spoke  it  surprisingly.  His  silence  towards  the 
plump  dumpling  of  a  cousin,  who  was  showing  Hilda 
about  the  garden  with  quaint  bobbings  and  solemn  pan 
tomime,  was  excusable  enough.  She  didn  't  know  a  word 
of  English,  it  seemed ;  though  you  never  could  tell  what 
a  Chinese  did  or  didn't  know,  John  Bradley  said,  and 
Ah  Wong  said  so  too.  But  really,  Basil  might  have 
made  an  effort,  and  said  a  little  something  civil  to  the 
English-knowing  hostess;  he  was  not  often  so  shy — he 
had  been  at  Oxford,  and  he  was  her  son.  Robert  had 
no  savoir  faire,  but,  as  a  rule,  the  boy  had  some. 

When  he  was  free  from  his  mother,  Basil  moved  to 
Nang  Ping  to  take  leave  of  her.  She  received  him  with 
a  quiet  dignity  that  seemed  perfectly  natural.  "Chi- 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  MOTHERS        107 

nese,  but  quite  the  grande  dame,"  the  mother  thought. 

He  uncovered  and  looked  down  at  Nang.  ''Good- 
day,  Miss  "Wu. ' '  She  shook  her  hands  at  him  in  Chinese- 
salutation  way,  and  straightening  up  looked  at  him  with 
just  the  edge  of  a  courteous  smile — not  an  eyelash  quiv 
ered.  He  turned  and  looked  towards  the  other  girls, 
but  Low  Soong  had  turned  her  back  and  was  bending 
and  gesticulating  over  a  peony  bed. 

"By  the  way,  Basil,"  his  mother  said  as  he  passed 
her,  but  paused  to  give  her  one  more  smile,  "the  gar 
dener  was  telling  your  father  that  he  knew  you."  She 
wished  him  to  go,  and  yet  she  stayed  him. 

Basil  shot  Nang  a  look — of  consternation — taken  aback 
and  off  his  guard.  Mrs.  Gregory  did  not  catch  it,  but 
both  Hilda  and  Low  Soong  did.  Nang  Ping  held  herself 
impassive,  but  distress  flickered  for  a  moment  in  her 
eyes.  Then  he  turned  back  to  his  mother,  trying  to  seem 
unconcerned. 

"Knew  me?  Why,  I — he's  never  seen  me  here  in 
his  life." 

"He  didn't  say  he  had,  silly,"  Hilda  Gregory  said, 
strolling  towards  them,  Low  Soong  tottering  deftly  be 
side  her — Low's  feet  were  bound — "he  said  he'd  seen 
you  in  Hong  Kong. ' ' 

"Oh!"  her  brother  laughed  feebly,  "in  Hong  Kong — 
that's  quite  possible.  Well,  now,  I  really  am  off.  Good- 
by,  Miss  Wu. ' '  And  Nang  Ping  bowed  to  him  once  more, 
in  the  prescribed  ceremonial  way,  her  face  perfectly  emo 
tionless,  dismissing  him  suavely,  turning  from  him  before 
he  had  quite  gone. 

"Will  you  not  be  seated?"  she  asked  Mrs.  Gregory, 
with  a  deferential  gesture  pointing  to  the  old  stone  seat. 

Hilda  and  Low  Soong  still  strolled  about  among  th« 
treasures  of  the  garden. 


108  MR.  WU 

All  Sing  and  perhaps  half  a  dozen  other  servants 
moved  about  on  padded,  noiseless  feet,  preparing  Miss 
Wu's  tea-table  with  all  its  picturesque  paraphernalia 
of  elaborate  teakwood  stools  and  benches,  lacquer  sweet 
meat-cabinets,  glazed  porcelain  tea-bowls  as  thin  as 
gauze  and  painted  by  master  craftsmen,  trays  of  candied 
fruit,  and  several  delicacies  of  which  Florence  Greg 
ory  did  not  know  the  name  and  could  not  guess  the 
nature. 

"So,"  she  said,  surprised  to  find  how  comfortable  a 
stone  bench  could  be,  "Mr.  Wu  was  at  Oxford.  How 
interesting !  I  wonder  when.  I  knew  a  Chinese  gentle 
man — a  student  there — when  I  was  quite  a  girl.  "We 
lived  at  Oxford,  my  father  and  I.  I  forget  his  name. 
I  have  the  saddest  memory,  especially  for  names,  and  it 
could  not  have  been  your  father  whom  I  knew,  for  I  dis 
tinctly  remember  hearing,  the  year  after  I  was  married 
— or  some  time  about  then — that  my  friend  was  dead, 
killed  in  a  climbing  accident  somewhere  on  the  Alps.  He 
•was  a  fine  sportsman." 

"Many  Chinese  gentlemen  are  sent  to  Oxford,  I  have 
heard  my  honorable  father  say,"  Nang  Ping  rejoined. 
"The  Japanese  go  more  to  Cambridge." 

"Yes — and  yet,"  Mrs.  Gregory  said  musingly,  but 
more  interested  in  watching  the  servants  than  she  was 
in  her  talk  with  this  rather  wooden  and  very  painted- 
faced  child  of  the  East,  "your  name — 'Wu,'  I  mean — has 
seemed  familiar  to  me  from  the  first,  and  now  I  seem  to 
remember  that  the  man  I  knew  at  Oxford  had  a  surname 
rather  like  that — or  even  that.  How  odd ! ' ' 

' '  There  are  many  Wus  in  China, ' '  the  girl  said.  "  It  is 
a  most  large  clan.  All  our  clans  are  very  large.  We  axe, 
you  know,  so  old." 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  MOTHERS        1109 

"Wu."  The  English  woman  said  it  slowly,  as  if  try 
ing  to  send,  on  the  sound  of  it,  her  peccant  memory  back 
to  some  forgotten  hour. 

"Oh!  it  is  a  most  general  name.  It  means  Military. 
I  do  not  know  why,  for, ' '  she  added  almost  hastily,  ' '  we 
have  had  no  soldiers  in  our  family — everything  almost 
but  that.  All  Chinese  names  mean  something,  but  of 
most  of  them — they  are  so  old — the  meaning  is  lost  in 
the  mists  of  far,  far  back,  uncounted  years  before  history 
was  written  or  kept  in  record.  And  perhaps  I  ought  to 
have  remembered  that  one  Wu  was  a  soldier  once.  Wu 
Sankwei  defended  Ningyuan  against  T'ientsung  when 
the  Manchus  first  overran  China.  But  that  was,  oh  !^so 
many  years  ago,  and  since  then  none  of  my  honorable 
ancestors  have  been  soldiers — or  at  least  very  few,"  she 
added,  with  a  sudden  blush  beneath  her  paint,  too  honest 
to  conceal  from  Basil's  mother,  who  was  also  her  guest, 
her  military  forbears,  descent  from  whom  she  felt  to  be 
a  bitter  disgrace,  though  she  knew,  as  every  educated 
Chinese  must,  that  in  all  China's  long  history  there  are 
few  greater  names  than  that  of  Wu  Sankwei,  the  defender 
of  Ningyuan.  "  'Li'  is  the  name  in  China  the  most 
common  and  perhaps  the  most  proud.  It  is  our  'Smith' 
name.  And  we  are  very  proud  of  it,  because  many  of 
its  men  have  been  great  and  noble,  and  because  their 
honorable  wives  have  borne  them  many  children. 
Scarcely  the  census-takers  can  count  the  Lis.  My  honor 
able  mother  was  a  Li  before  my  honorable  father  married 
her  to  be  Mrs.  Wu.  They  were  cousins,  but  more  than 
a  century  away — 'twenty  times  removed,'  as  you  would 
call  it  in  your  English.  The  honorable  Li  Hung  Chang's 
our  distant  kinsman,  my  honorable  kinsman  on  both 
sides.  My  own  honorable  father  has  'Li'  blood  on  the 


no  MR.  WU 

side  of  distaff;  his  honorable  name  is  Wu  Li  Chang. 
"We  are  Chinese,  we  of  our  house,  but  now  in  some  of  our 
blood  we  are  Manchu  too." 

Mrs.  Gregory  smiled  up  at  the  girl.  "Will  you  not 
sit  here  too?"  And  Nang  Ping  bowed  and  curled  up 
on  the  other  end  of  the  big  seat. 

Ah  Wong  opened  her  mistress's  parasol  and  brought 
it,  and  Mrs.  Gregory  took  it  with  a  grateful  "Ah!" 
"We  have  enjoyed  ourselves  so  much  in  your  wonderful 
country,  Miss  Wu,"  she  went  on;  "we  are  quite  sorry 
our  time  here  is  drawing  to  a  close.  You  know — but  I 
forgot,  you  know  nothing  of  us,  of  course — well,  we  are 
going  soon,  going  home." 

"All  of  you  go?"  Nang  Ping  knew  that  they  all 
were  to  go,  but  she  could  not  resist  the  self-inflicted  pain 
of  hearing  it  again. 

"Yes,  all  four  of  us — we  are  just  the  four — and  I 
think  my  son  will  be  glad  to  get  home  again,  after  a 
year  in  the  East." 

"I  doubt  that  not,"  the  girl  replied,  in  an  odd,  quiet 
voice.  "But,"  she  added,  reaching  up  one  ring-heavy 
hand  to  pull  down  a  flower,  only  to  pitch  it  aside  when 
she  had  smelt  it  once — the  Chinese  rarely  do  that — "but 
he  said  he  liked  the  East." 

"Oh!  yes,  indeed  he  does.  We  all  do.  Who  could 
help  it?  But,  after  all,  it  is  not  quite  the  same  thing 
as  home,  you  know,  especially  to  a  man;  and,  besides, 
Basil  has  many  friends  whom  he  longs  to  see  again. 
And" — adding  this  good-naturedly,  anxious  to  interest 
the  girl  and  smiling  significantly — "we  don't  want  an 
old  bachelor  in  our  family,  you  know;  we  have  but  the 
one  son." 

"  'Bachelor' — that  is  one  English  word  I  do  not 
know." 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  MOTHERS        111 

"Well,  what  I  mean  is  that  Basil  must  return  home 
before  all  the  eligible  young  ladies  of  his  acquaintance 
forget  him." 

' '  That  means ' ' — the  girl 's  voice  hurt  her  throat — c '  he 
is  going  home  to  marry?" 

"Well,"  his  mother  admitted,  "there  is  a  young  lady 
at  home,  I  believe,  who  will  be  very  glad  to  see  him  again, 
so  I  hope  it  will  eventually  come  to  that." 

Nang  Ping  laughed.  And  Mrs.  Gregory  thought, 
"How  very  oddly  the  Chinese  laugh !  It's  anything  but 
gay." 

"And  he  will  never  come  back?" — the  strange  crea 
ture  said  it  with  a  smile. 

"Oh,  yes!"  Hilda  said,  joining  them,  "some  day,  per 
haps,  when  he  has  settled  down,  to  take  charge  of  this 
branch." 

"  I  'm  afraid  Basil  is  the  sort  of  son  who  never  settles 
down,"  his  mother  said  lightly.  Nang  Ping  thought  it 
most  strange,  and  not  nice,  that  the  mother  should  say 
it  at  all,  but  she  quite  believed — now — that  it  was  true. 
She  rose,  and  clapped  her  hands  for  Ah  Sing. 

"If  you  will  honor  me  by  taking  tea,"  she  said,  and 
led  the  way  to  the  highly  decorated  table  where  the 
ornate  meal  was  elaborately  laid,  the  blue-clad  servants 
standing  about  it  in  a  circle,  as  still  as  stones.  At  their 
young  mistress's  approach  they  bowed  almost  to  the 
ground — so  low  that  their  cues  swept  the  grass,  and  one 
caught  and  tangled  in  a  verbena  bed.  Mrs.  Gregory 
suppressed  a  smile,  but  Hilda  could  not  suppress  a  low 
giggle.  But  she  tried  to,  and  that  much  is  to  her  credit. 

"How  jolly!"  she  cried,  as  they  sat  down  to  an  ac 
companiment  of  many  bows  from  the  cousins.  "How 
perfectly  jolly!" 

"Delightful!"  agreed  her  mother.     And  Nang  Ping, 


112  MR.  WU 

in  spite  of  the  choking  misery  in  her  throat  and  smarting 
in  her  breast,  was  pleased  at  their  pleasure.  She  thought 
it  sincere,  and  both  Low  Soong  and  Ah  Wong,  watching 
lynx-eyed  and  imperturbable,  knew  that  it  was.  Low 
Soong  was  but  an  obliging  mannequin  this  afternoon, 
Ah  Wong  but  a  lay  figure,  expressionless  and  almost 
motionless,  but  neither  had  missed  a  word,  a  look,  or  a 
meaning  from  the  first,  although  Ah  Wong  had  little 
English  and  Low  Soong  had  none. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
GRIT 

MRS.  GREGORY  bore  her  part  in  the  pretty  little 
function  with  creditable  imitation  of  Chinese 
propriety.  She  had  been  coached  by  a  woman  at  Gov 
ernment  House.  She  blessed  her  own  foresight  that  she 
had,  and  reproached  herself  that  Hilda  had  not. 

Nang  Ping  raised  her  bowl  of  scalding  tea  almost 
to  her  forehead,  and  then  held  it  out  first  towards  Mrs. 
Gregory  and  then  towards  Hilda,  and  waited  for  them  to 
drink — and  so  did  Low  Soong;  and  when  they  drank, 
the  two  girls  bowed  several  times  and  then  drained  their 
tiny  bowls. 

When  the  sweetmeats  were  pressed  upon  them  Mrs. 
Gregory  took  one  candied  rose  petal,  and  then — after 
much  urging — took,  with  a  fine  display  of  reluctance,  the 
smallest  crystallized  violet  on  the  dish.  But  when  Miss 
Wu  entreated  Hilda,  "I  beg  you  to  condescend  to  accept 
and  pardon  my  abominable  food,"  Hilda  helped  herself 
generously  to  five  or  six  of  the  glittering  dainties.  A 
guest  at  a  London  dinner-table  who  had  seized  in  her  own 
hands  a  roast  fowl  by  its  stark  legs,  conveyed  it  to  her 
own  plate,  and  then  began  to  gnaw  it,  without  even 
wrenching  it  into  portions  as  Tudor  Elizabeth  would 
have  wrenched  it,  would  not  have  committed  a  more  out 
rageous  act.  Nang  Ping  immediately  helped  herself 
even  more  generously  than  Hilda  had,  and  Low  Soong, 

113 


114  MR.  WU 

after  one  startled  instant,  did  the  same.  Mrs.  Gregory 
saw  it  all,  and  wondered,  with  a  social  conscience  abashed 
and  chastened,  if  she  would  have  had  the  fine  courage,  had 
the  situation  been  reversed,  to  seize  the  second  chicken 
and  chew  at  it  noisily.  And  she  looked  at  her  little  hos 
tess  with  new  respect,  convinced  again  that  Nang  Ping 
was  exquisitely  "grande  dame,"  and  beginning  to  sus 
pect  that  the  pretty,  painted  doll-thing  had  something  in 
her  after  all,  if  only  one  knew  how  to  get  at  it.  She 
wondered  what  a  girl  living  so,  amid  such  a  riot  of 
fantastic  ornament  and  seemingly  meaningless  petty 
ceremony,  thought  and  felt.  Did  she  think?  Did 
she  feel?  Or  was  her  mind  as  blank,  her  soul  as  im 
passive  as  her  face?  What  did  motherhood  itself  mean 
to  such  dolls,  and  could  wif ehood  mean  anything  ?  Ah ! 
well,  if  marriage  was  but  a  gilded  mirage  on  the  horizon 
of  such  opera-bouffe  existence — as,  for  all  she  could  see, 
the  existence  of  well-to-do  Chinese  women  was — that  un 
reality  might  lessen  pain  more  than  it  dwarfed  hap 
piness.  The  English  woman  sighed  a  little.  But  they 
must  love  their  babies,  these  funny  little  creatures. 
Every  mother  loved  her  baby.  And  there  was  something 
gentle  and  loving,  she  thought,  in  this  girl's  face,  be 
neath  the  paint  and  the  conventional  mask.  She  looked 
up  and  searched  the  younger  face  with  kindly,  motherly 
eyes.  Yes;  it  would  be  pretty  to  see  a  baby  cuddled  in 
those  gay  silken  sleeves.  She  smiled  at  the  thought  and 
at  the  girl,  and  Nang  Ping  smiled  back  at  her.  Some 
thing  cried  and  fluttered  at  Nang's  heart,  and  flashed 
softly  from  her  eyes,  and  found  a  moment's  nesting  in 
the  older  woman's  heart.  And  for  an  instant  the 
Chinese  girl  and  the  English  woman  were  in  close  touch ; 
and,  if  they  had  been  alone,  perhaps — who  knows — 
But  before  the  tea-bowls  had  been  replenished  four 


GRIT  1 15 

times  they  heard  the  truants,  Mr.  Gregory  and  Tom 
Carruthers,  coming. 

Carruthers  was  speaking.  "There,  Mr.  Gregory, 
there's  a  pond  full  of  goldfish — and  such  goldfish!  By 
Jove!" 

"My  dear  Tom,"  an  older  voice  said  impatiently, 
' '  there 's  more  sense  in  a  bowl  of  herrings  than  a  pondf ul 
of  silly  goldfish." 

"Ah! — still,"  the  younger  persisted,  as  the  two  men 
came  in  sight,  "you  must  admit  this  is  another  lovely 
spot." 

"H'm,  yes,"  Eobert  Gregory  allowed,  pursing  up  his 
lips  deprecatingly  in  a  way  he  often  had  when  bartering 
in  boats  or  rates.  ' '  Rather  reminds  me  of  Kew  Gardens, 
but  inferior — too  gimcrack!" 

But  Carruthers  saw  the  others  then.  "Ah!  There 
they  are!  Taking  tea  under  rather  better  conditions 
than  Kew,  I  fancy." 

Nang  Ping  rose  and  went  towards  Gregory  hospitably. 
He  lifted  his  hat  perfunctorily  and  spoke  to  her  crisply, 
not  waiting  for  the  welcome  she  had  risen  to  accord. 
' '  How  do  you  do  ?  Miss  Wu,  I  presume  ?  It 's  awfully 
good  of  you  to  let  us  have  a  look  around. ' ' 

Mrs.  Gregory  rose  too,  and  came  up  to  Nang  Ping, 
feeling  the  girl's  resentment  at  a  tone  to  which  she  was 
unaccustomed — a  resentment  she  in  no  way  showed. 

"My  husband,  Miss  Wu,"  the  English  lady  said,  pre 
senting  him  to  the  girl,  and  speaking  to  her  with  pointed 
respect,  and  the  man  took  the  hint  a  little,  and  bowed 
pleasantly  enough  as  Nang  Ping  almost  ko 'towed. 

So  this  was  the  father — Basil's  honorable  father! 
She  liked  him  least  of  the  three — the  three  who  might 
have  been  her  relatives — more  to  her  than  her  own  father, 
whom  she  had  known  so  long  and  loved  so  well.  He  was 


ii6  MR.  WU 

not  like  Basil,  but  like  the  daughter.  Of  the  three  she 
liked  the  honorable  mother  best — much.  "You  are  just 
in  time  to  take  tea,  if  you  will  honor  me,"  she  said. 

"May  I  present  Mr.  Carruthers  to  you,  Miss  WuT" 
Mrs.  Gregory  asked. 

Nang  Ping  greeted  the  additional  guest  with  the 
widest  outpush  of  her  joined  hands  and  the  most  stiffly 
formal  bow  she  had  made  yet.  But  she  liked  this  face ; 
he  looked,  she  thought,  indeed  an  "honorable  man." 

"Tea!  By  all  means,"  Mr.  Gregory  said  briskly, 
steering  for  the  richly  laden  toy  tea-table  in  a  business- 
like  way.  He  thought  there 'd  been  bowing  and  arm. 
shaking  enough  for  a  month  o'  Sundays. 

Low  Soong  giggled  a  little  when  Tom  Carruthers  lifted 
his  hat  to  her — Nang  shot  her  cousin  "a  severe  look — and 
then,  to  Mr.  Gregory's  disgust,  all  the  bowing  and  arm- 
waving  was  to  do  again. 

"I  am  sorry  not  to  serve  tea  in  the  English  way," 
Nang  Ping  said,  as  she  returned  to  her  seat.  (Gregory 
had  already  taken  his.) 

""Why!"  Mrs.  Gregory  protested,  "what  can  be  more 
delightful  than  to  serve  China  tea  in  the  Chinese  way  in 
China?  And  this  is  such  a  real  treat  to  me!  I  can 
have  my  tea  in  our  stupid  home  way — half  cold  and 
quite  insipid — any  day." 

"Well,"  Gregory  commented,  leaning  back  negligently 
in  his  chair  and  stretching  out  his  legs  in  comfortable 
-  abandon,  "perhaps  I've  not  been  here  long  enough  to  ap 
preciate  Chinese  customs.  That's  the  worst  of  being  a 
real  Englishman,  Miss  Wu — one  misses  English  com 
forts." 

Tom  Carruthers  saw  a  tiny  shadow  of  disgust  cloud 
across  Xang  Ping's  painted  mouth,  and  he  knew,  with- 


GRIT  117 

out  looking,  the  distress  on  Florence  Gregory's  face. 
"Mr.  Gregory,"  he  interposed,  "your  tea,"  and  pointed 
to  Gregory's  waiting  cup. 

They  all  were  waiting  to  drink  together;  not  to  have 
done  so  would  have  been  a  rudeness. 

"Oh!"  Gregory  vouchsafed,  lifting  the  tiny  piece  of 
porcelain  critically  and  tasting  the  brew  gingerly  when 
he  had  discarded  the  covering  saucer  a  little  roughly. 
And  when  he  drank,  the  others  drank  with  him. 

He  tasted  the  delicate  tea  superciliously,  and  disap 
proved  it  frankly.  ' '  Here,  boy, ' '  he  called  to  one  of  the 
Wu  servants,  and  holding  out  the  cup  with  a  disgusted 
grimace,  "take  it  away."  The  servant  with  the  Wu 
crest  embroidered  on  his  back  bowed  low,  stepped  for 
ward,  bowed  lower,  and  then  took  the  offending  handle- 
less  cup  and  gravely  bore  it  away.  And  the  four  women 
looked  on,  Hilda  amused,  his  wife  distressed,  the  two 
Chinese  girls  smilingly  imperturbable.  It  is  difficult  to 
decide  which  owes  China  the  more  apology — English 
missionaries  or  English  manners. 

"By  the  way,  Miss  "Wu,"  Gregory  said,  speaking 
btaccato  between  sugared  mouthfuls — he  had  appropri 
ated  the  nearest  dish  of  sweetmeats  to  his  sole  use,  and 
evidently  approved  its  candied  contents  as  much  as  he 
had  disapproved  the  tea — "I'm  very  dissatisfied  with 
your  father." 

Nang  Ping  smiled  a  little  haughtily,  rising  as  she 
spoke.  "I  am  sorry  my  honorable  father  should  of 
fend." 

"Yes,  so  am  I.  Of  course,  business  is  business.  I  ad 
mit  I  live  up  to  that  myself,  and  I  must  expect  others 
to.  But  I  have  heard  that  he  has  just  bought  over  my 
head — over  my  head,  mind  you — a  dock  site  which  is  in- 


u8  MR.  WU 

dispensable  for  my  new  line  of  ships  to  Australia.  I 
wrote  him  about  it,  and  reply  seemed,  I  must  admit — 
well,  a  trifle  vindictive. ' ' 

The  girl  sat  down  again  quietly,  but  Tom  Carruthers, 
who  had  risen  when  she  had,  stood  still  leaning  a  little 
on  his  chair  and  watching  her  closely. 

"But  you  have  not  seen  my  honorable  father  for  a 
long  time, ' '  Nang  told  the  financier. 

"Oh!"  he  returned,  "I,  personally,  have  never  seen 
your  father,  Miss  Wu;  but  my  manager,  Holman,  saw 
him  a  couple  of  hours  ago." 

Nang  Ping's  fingers  tangled  quickly  in  her  girdle. 
Only  Ah  Wong  saw  it,  but  several  of  them  noticed  Low 
Soong's  start — it  was  noticeable.  "It  cannot  be  so," 
Nang  said. 

"Eh?  Of  course  it  is  so.  Old  Holman 's  got  both  his 
eyes ;  he  sees  all  right. ' ' 

"But" — and,  in  spite  of  her,  a  little  of  the  concern 
she  felt  crept  into  her  voice — "but  he  has  been  in  Canton 
for  twenty  days." 

"Oh!  well,"  Mr.  Gregory  returned  indifferently, 
"then  he  must  have  come  back.  It's  scarcely  two  hours 
since  Holman  met  him  and  told  him  we  were  visiting 
Kowloon.  And  your  father  particularly  requested  that 
we  should  visit  his  garden.  He  said  any  member  of 
my  family  would  be  made  very  welcome.  Holman  said 
those  were  Wu's  exact  words — exact  old  josser,  Hol 
man,  always.  Any  member  of  my  family  would  be 
made  very  welcome.  And,  you  know,  that's  all  very 
well  when  you've  just  done  a  man  down  in  business — 
any  one  can  afford  to  be  polite  then."  He  got  up  and 
dragged  his  chair  a  few  feet  and  reseated  himself  beside 
his  wife. 

"Bobert."  she  greeted  him,  "you  can  scarcely  expect 


GRIT 


119 


Miss  Wu  to  be  interested  in  your  business  disappoint 
ments."  She  turned  then  to  the  girl.  "It  will  be  a 
pleasant  surprise  for  you ;  you  did  not  know  your  father 
had  returned?" 

Nang  shook  her  head  a  little.  "No.  It  is  strange, 
for  he  is  never  unkind  to  me." 

"Oh !  I  know  what  brought  him  back,"  Gregory  per 
sisted  bellicosely,  "and  it's  a  dog-in-a-manger  business, 
and  I  wrote  and  told  him  so,  because  the  dock  site  isn't 
any  earthly  good  to  him." 

Florence  Gregory  sighed.  "Eobert,"  she  said 
severely,  ' '  I  am  sure  Mr.  Wu  does  not  trouble  his  daugh 
ter  with  his-  business  worries. ' ' 

"My  dear,"  her  husband  snapped  irritably,  "it  is 
not  his  worries  we  are  discussing,  but  mine.  By  the  way, 
Miss  Wu,  has  your  right  honorable  father  by  any  chance 
a  brother?" 

' '  Alas ! ' '  the  girl  replied  sorrowfully — she  had  missed 
the  slur  in  that  "right  honorable"  (no  one  else  had 
missed  it,  not  even  Low) — "alas!  His  honorable 
mother  was  unfortunate  in  only  having  one  son. ' ' 

"Well,"  almost  grunted  the  Englishman,  "I  could 
have  sworn  she'd  had  twins." 

"Robert!" — his  wife's  voice  was  coldly  angry.  But 
Hilda  giggled. 

"Twins!"  Carruthers  said,  a  little  fatuously.  He 
was  puzzled,  and  he  liked  to  understand  things  as  he 
went  along. 

Gregory  answered  his  wife 's  expostulation  with  expos 
tulation.  "My  dear,  it's  scarcely  two  hours  ago  since 
Holman  saw  him  in  Hong  Kong.  And  yet,  as  soon  as 
we  get  this  side  of  the  water,  your  gardener,  Miss  Wu, 
tells  me  that  your  father  has  just  arrived  here  in  Kow- 
loon,  and  that  he  was  here  for  a  while  yesterday,  and  yet 


120  MR.  WU 

I  don't  see  him  about  anywhere,  and  I  particularly  wanV 
to  see  him." 

' '  In  that  San  Fong  make  a  mistake, ' '  Nang  Ping  said 
quietly.  But  she  had  risen  to  her  feet  in  evident  disv 
tress,  though  she  controlled  it  bravely,  and  the  others 
had  all  risen  too,  as  if  her  sudden  motion  was  a  cue  that 
prompted  them.  Even  Gregory  saw  that  he  had  made  a 
faux  pas,  and  looked  awkwardly  towards  his  wife,  saying, 
"Oh !  well,  maybe  he  did,  but  I  don't  believe  it.  I'm  not 
educated  up  to  green  tea  and  chop-sticks,  but  I've  lived 
in  China  off  and  on  some  good  few  years  now,  and  I  un 
derstand  your  lingo  right  enough,  at  least  the  'pigeon* 
variety  of  it,  and  that's  what  the  gardener  said,  and  if 
you  ask  me,  he  savvied  what  he  was  talking  about." 

Low  Soong  had  slipped  round  to  Nang's  side,  and  stood 
Very  close  to  it. 

"Robert,"  his  wife  said  bitterly,  "I  really  don't  know 
which  is  worse,  a  bull  in  a  china-shop  or  you  in  a  Chinese 
lady's  garden.  You  make  one  understand  why  they  call 
us  foreign  devils."  He  shrugged  his  big  shoulders 
sulkily  in  reply,  and  moved  off  to  the  pond,  whistling  un 
concernedly. 

Mrs.  Gregory  followed  him,  and  he  turned  towards 
Nang  and  said  patronisingly  (but  that  was  unintentional 
— he  couldn't  help  it),  "It's  really  quite  a  charming 
place,  Miss  Wu,  'pon  my  word  it  is — charming.  Quite 
Oriental,  isn't  it?"  lie  paused  at  that  to  let  them  all 
appreciate  his  unique  discovery,  and  wondered  im 
patiently  why  the  dickens  Carruthers  grinned.  "I  sup 
pose  every  country  has  the  landscape  that  suits  it  best, 
but  there  are  some  little  bits  of  England  that  take  a  lot 
of  beating. ' ' 

"The  light  is  failing  now,"  Florence  said — she  had 


GRIT  221 

quite  relinquished  her  hope  of  seeing  the  interior  of  the 
house — "and  I  am  afraid  we  are  keeping  Miss  Wu  long 
after  her  tea-time." 

"Oh,  no!"  Nang  Ping  said,  "not  at  the  least;  buf 
fer  she  knew  her  strength  was  ebbing  fast,  and  she  felt 
very  ill — ' '  I — I  am  not  strong  to-day.  And — I  must  seek 
my  apartments  early,  as  my  honorable  father  has  re 
turned/'  She  turned  to  Ah  Sing,  who  had  not  moved 
from  his  sentinel  place  in  front  of  the  pagoda,  and  said 
to  him,  "Tsu  tang  yang  ur!"  And  he  bowed  and  went 
to  summon  the  lantern-bearers. 

Florence  Gregory  took  both  the  Chinese  girl's  little 
hands  in  hers.  "How  cold  they  feel,  even  through  my 
gloves ! ' '  she  thought.  ' '  Good-by, ' '  she  said  very  gently. 
' '  Good-by,  Miss  Wu,  and  let  me  thank  you  for  the  great 
treat  you  have  given  us." 

Nang  Ping  made  no  reply — she  couldn't — but  she 
looked  up  at  her  going  guest  with  something  so  pathetic 
in  her  odd  eyes  and  something  so  nearly  a-tremble  on 
her  mouth  that  the  older  woman  almost  bent  and  kissed 
her. 

"Where's  Basil?"  Tom  Carruthers  asked.  "Has  he 
cleared  off,  Hilda?" 

"Yes,"  she  told  him,  "he  had  a  conscientious  fit  and 
has  gone  to  the  office  to  work.  Good-by,  Miss  Wu," 
she  said  to  Nang  Ping,  "and  thanks  awfully.  It's  been 
quite  too  ripping." 

Nang  felt  too  faint  by  now  to  wonder  what  the  odd 
English  words  the  other  girl  used  meant.  But  she 
smiled  up  at  Basil's  sister  very  kindly. 

"You  shall  be  attended  to  the  gates,"  she  said  to  her, 
and  added  to  Carruthers,  as  he  came  to  take  leave,  "My 
own  garden  is  locked  at  sunset. ' ' 


122  MR.  WU 

Carruthers  said  something  brief,  and  then  looked  about 
to  take  his  leave  of  the  cousin,  and  wondered  to  see  her 
slipping  stealthily  away  and  out  of  sight.  She  was  a 
funny  little  bunch,  he  thought. 

"Father  hardly  brought  his  garden-party  manners 
with  him,  did  he?"  Hilda  said  unconcernedly  to  her 
mother,  as  they  and  Carruthers  passed  from  the  garden, 
four  blue-robed  Chinese,  with  great  lanterns  swinging 
from  their  hands,  in  close  attendance,  and  Ah  Wong 
just  behind  them. 

"No,"  his  wife  said  wearily.  "And  I'm  afraid  he 
didn't  leave  many  behind,  either." 

Except  for  a  group  of  silent,  motionless  serving-men, 
Robert  Gregory  and  Wu  Nang  Ping  were  alone  in  the 
darkening  garden  now. 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  her.     "Good-by,  Miss  Wu." 

She  did  not  take  it,  but  she  bowed  to  him  deeply,  and 
because  he  was  Basil's  father  and  she  thought  that  she 
should  not  see  him  again  she  gave  him  the  utmost 
obeisance  of  Chinese  ceremony,  sinking  quite  down  to 
the  ground.  That  extremest  collapse  of  leg  and  knee, 
the  ko'tow  of  utmost  reverence,  is  reserved,  as  a  rule, 
for  an  Emperor,  an  imperial  mother  or  first  wife,  the 
grave  of  Confucius  in  the  Kung  cemetery,  outside 
K'iuh-fu  (where  only  the  crystal  tree  will  grow)  and 
for  the  tablets  of  one's  own  ancestral  dead. 

"Oh!  To  be  sure,"  he  said  good-naturedly  enough, 
letting  his  extended  hand  drop  to  his  side.  "Well, 
good-by  and  good  luck.  I  had  hoped  to  meet  our  inter 
esting  friend.  I  had  quite  a  lot  to  say  to  him.  But  I  'm 
pleased  to  have  met  you,  even  if  I  don't  think  much  of 
your  tea.  You  must  come  up  to  our  hotel  one  day,  and 
Mrs.  Gregory  and  Hilda '11  give  you  the  prime  stuff. 
Good-by."  He  added  to  himself  only  half  under  his 


GRIT  123 

breath,  as  he  marched  off,  "And  I  hope  my  visit  isn't 
going  to  be  wasted ! ' ' 

Nang  Ping  stood  motionless  and  watched  him  till  he 
was  out  of  sight. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  SIGNAL  OP  THE  GONG 

AND  then  the  breakdown  came,  and  she  sank  down, 
weeping  and  distracted,   on  the  long  stone  seat. 
Her  father  in  Kowloon!     Her  father  who  was  almost 
omniscient!     How  long  had  he  been  there?    What  had 
he  learned? 

Somewhere  in  the  house  a  great  gong  sounded — seven 
slow  beats,  deep  throated  as  the  braying  of  some  blood 
hound,  but  low  and  soft  at  first,  growing  louder,  then 
soft  again,  all  musical,  but  almost  uncannily  significant. 
As  the  second  note  beat  into  the  garden,  Nang  Ping 
roused  herself,  and  sat  up  against  the  seat's  back,  clutch 
ing  at  it  desperately.  She  listened  in  fear  that  grew  to 
anguish  as  note  followed  note.  Only  one  hand  ever 
struck  that  gong !  As  the  brazened  signal  died  away  in 
the  scented  evening  air,  she  sprang  up  and  ran  distracted 
on  to  the  bridge,  calling,  "Basil!  Basil!"  thinking  no 
longer  of  herself  but  only  to  save  the  lover  who  had 
spoiled  her  life.  Women  are  like  that  in  China — and  in 
England. 

He  came  at  once,  and  she  bent  over  the  bridge  to  him 
and  said,  as  he  stood  on  the  path  he  had  come  by,  ' '  You 
must  go.  My  father!  Go  quickly  1" 

1  'Your  father!" 

"Go— go  now!     Quick!" 

"But  we're  safe  here — for  the  moment."  He  was 
glad  of  an  excuse  to  leave  her,  and  yet  he  wanted  too  to 

124 


THE  SIGNAL  OF  THE  GONG  125 

stay,  to  toy,  if  but  for  a  moment,  by  the  lotus  lake  where 
he  had  found  the  dalliance  sweet  that  had  proved  fatal 
to  poor  Nang  Ping. 

"  No,  no ! "  she  told  him  frantically.  ' '  Not  safe.  Safe 
nowhere.  Never  safe  again.  But  most  dangerous  here. 
Go!  Fly,  Basil,  fly!  Before  my  father's  wrath  falls 
on  you,  fly !  Take  the  path  by  the  Peacock  Terrace  and 
go." 

She  had  infected  him  now  with  her  own  breathless 
fear,  but  even  so  he  hesitated  an  instant  longer,  for  she 
had  urged  him  to  go ;  and  when  is  not  the  man  reluctant 
to  go  whom  a  woman  forbids  to  stay? 

"Celeste" — he  called  her  by  the  name  with  which  he 
had  wooed  her  and  never  wooed  in  vain — ' '  little  flower, 
our  happiness  has  been  too  great,  too  perfect.  There 
must  be  some  other  way :  there  shall ! ' ' 

"None!    None!"  the  girl  said  solemnly. 

"I  love  you,  dear,"  he  whispered  passionately. 

"No,"  Nang  Ping  said  gently,  "your  love  has  flown 
away  from  me,  and  the  nest  of  my  heart  is  cold  for  al 
ways  now. ' ' 

"It  isn't  true,"  he  protested  hotly.    "It  is  not  true." 

"Go!" 

"I  will  come  back  to  you." 

"No!"  Nang  Ping's  voice  was  soft  and  clear  and 
tender  as  a  flute.  ' '  Go.  Go,  and  forget. ' ' 

"Then" — he  lifted  his  hat  and  came  towards  her  un 
covered,  his  arms  outstretched — "farewell,  Celeste." 

But  she  turned  and  moved  a  little  away,  not  even 
facing  him  again.  She  was  afraid  to  trust  those  arms, 
a  thousand  times  afraid  to  trust  herself.  "Farewell  to 
life  and  love, ' '  she  said  under  her  breath,  smiling  wanly 
but  moving  steadily  towards  the  house. 

With  a  cry — half  remorse,  half  passion,  and  something 


u6  MR.  WU 

too,  just  a  little,  of  the  brute,  grim  aiid  primal,  not  to  be 
baulked  of  his  prey — Basil  Gregory  sprang  after  her  to 
catch  her  in  his  arms.  But  before  he  reached  her,  just 
before,  other  arms  caught  him  and  held  him  in  a  vice. 

Ah  Sing  had  glided  like  some  upright  indigo-colored 
snake  from  the  pagoda — "the  pagoda  by  the  lake" — 
and,  springing  seemingly  from  space,  one  from  one  direc 
tion,  one  from  another,  two  of  the  gardeners,  almost  as 
quick  as  he,  reached  the  Englishman  almost  as  soon. 
Six  arms  pinioned  him,  without  a  word,  without  a  sound. 
And  there  was  no  expression  on  the  Chinese  faces  of  the 
three — no  hatred,  no  determination,  not  even  interest. 

But  another  man,  a  dark-robed  figure,  stood  on  the 
bridge,  above  them  all,  and  slowly  he  smiled — a  terrible 
smile. 

Nang  Ping  had  not  heard  the  four  Chinese — no  one 
could  have  heard  them.  But  she  caught  the  slight  sound 
of  Basil's  desperate  struggles — he  was  struggling  too 
frantically  to  waste  any  of  his  strength  on  voluntary 
noise.  She  turned  and  ran  to  him,  crying,  "Oh,  Basil!" 
— no  matter  who  heard  her  now.  The  end  had  come, 
and  Nang  Ping  knew  it.  She  threw  herself  in  front  of 
him,  thrust  herself  into  the  seething  coil,  to  protect  his 
body  with  hers,  as  far  as  he  could. 

With  a  supreme  effort — or  did  that  still  figure  on  the 
bridge  give  a  slight  signal  that  Ah  Sing  caught? — per 
haps  both — for  a  moment  Basil's  right  arm  was  free. 
He  whipped  out  his  revolver.  But  with  a  touch  of  Ah 
Sing's  finger-tips — it  looked  an  indifferent  touch,  and  the 
servant's  eyes  had  not  turned  even  for  the  smallest 
space  of  time  from  that  quiet  figure  on  the  bridge — the 
English  arm  fell  helpless  at  Gregory's  side,  the  revolver 
clattered  down  the  stone  step,  and  Basil,  turning  his 
head  up  in  pain,  saw  the  motionless  looker-on. 


THE  SIGNAL  OF  THE  GONG  127 

' '  My  God ! "  the  boy  cried.  ' '  Mr.  Wu ! " 
Nang  Ping  turned  slowly  round,  looked  at  her  father 
as  if  entranced  and  dazed,  then  with  a  scream  that  cut 
through  the  hot  air  like  the  voice  of  a  child  that  had  been 
knifed  and  was  dying,  fell  prostrate  at  the  foot  of  the 
bridge,  and  lay  moaning  with  her  face  on  Basil  Gregory 's 
shoe,  her  hands,  with  some  last  instinct  to  protect  him, 
clasped  about  his  silk-clad  ankle. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

AT  THE  FEET  OP  KWAYIN  Ko 

NANG  PING  sat  crouched  at  the  feet  of  Kwanyin  Ko, 
the  Goddess  of  Mercy,  on  the  floor  of  her  own 
room.     She  had  been  alone  all  night. 

She  remembered  seeing  her  father  on  the  bridge.  She 
remembered  falling  at  Basil's  feet.  She  remembered 
nothing  more — clearly.  She  thought  she  recalled,  as 
from  a  dream,  being  carried  from  the  garden  and  laid 
here.  She  thought  it  had  been  gently  done.  Whose 
arms  had  lifted  and  borne  her  1  She  thought  that  she  had 
been  laid  on  her  bed ;  across  the  room  her  sleeping-mats 
were  unrolled,  and  a  light  down  coverlet  was  tossed  across 
the  hard  little  cylinder  which  was  her  pillow.  Some  one 
had  laid  her  down  to  sleep.  Who  ?  And  some  one  had 
brought  her  food  and  drink,  for  on  a  tray  near  the  mats 
there  were  fresh  fruit  and  a  dish  of  wine. 

Had  she  been  awake  when  she  crawled  here  to  lay  her 
sorrow  at  Kwanyin 's  feet?  Or  had  she  thrown  off  the 
coverlet  and  crept  across  the  floor  in  her  sleep  ? 

A  nightlight  burned  dimly  in  an  opalescent  cup,  and 
across  the  garden  she  could  hear  a  cricket  call  and  some 
big  insect  buzzing  in  the  dark. 

She  tried  to  think,  but  she  was  too  tired.  She  turned 
her  face  to  the  floor  and  laid  so,  prone  before  the  painted 
graven  figure  which  was  the  only  succor  left,  the  only 
semblance  of  woman's  companionship  within  her  reach. 

128 


AT  THE  FEET  OF  KWANYIN  KO         129 

Where  was  Low  Soong?  Had  Low  been  caught  too  in 
the  coil?  If  not,  surely  Low  would  come  to  her  pres 
ently,  if  she  could.  What  had  they  done  to  Basil? 
She  clenched  her  hands  together  in  supplication  so 
frenzied  that  her  nails  cut  into  her  palms  and  her  rings 
tore  her  flesh.  What  would  come  now?  Or,  rather, 
when  would  it  come,  and  how?  She  knew  what  was  to 
come. 

But  she  could  think  no  more.  She  could  suffer. 
That  faculty  was  left  her,  but  she  could  neither  reason 
nor  plan.  And  why  should  she  ?  The  end  was  absolute, 
and  absolute  the  uselessness  of  thought. 

Towards  morning  she  found  the  little  tinder-box, 
stuffed  her  pipe,  and  began  to  smoke.  It  was  innocuous 
enough  a  drugging,  but  gave  her  growing  nervousness 
something  to  do.  Three  or  four  whiffs  empty  those  tiny 
pipes.  To  throw  out  the  ash  took  a  moment,  to  refill  the 
bowl  took  another;  the  drawing  on  the  stem  killed  a 
third — over  and  over  again,  and  one  of  the  terrible  night 
hours  had  gone.  And  still  the  Chinese  girl  lay  on  her 
hard  wood  floor  smoking  mechanically,  as  in  Europe  a 
girl  so  placed  might  have  crocheted,  or  a  woman  older 
but  no  less  desperate  have  played  patience,  or  tried  to 
play. 

When  the  first  streaks  of  day  came  to  sharpen  the 
familiar  outlines  of  the  room  and  of  its  furnishings,  and 
sharpen  her  sense  of  pain  and  peril,  she  threw  the  tiny 
silver  pipe  across  the  floor.  It  fell  with  a  clatter  on  the 
arabesque  of  the  hard  inlaying. 

This  Kowloon  house  of  Wu  was  a  veritable  treasure- 
house.  Not  an  apartment  in  it  (for  the  servants  lived, 
and  cooked  even,  outside)  but  held  much  that  was  price 
less.  And  no  other  room  had  been  plenished  with  such 
lavish  tenderness  as  had  this  room  of  his  one  child. 


130  MR.  WU 

The  old  bronze  table  that  pedestalled  and  throned 
Kwanyin  Ko  had  not  its  match  in  Europe,  neither  in 
palace  nor  museum,  and  Kwanyin  Ko,  herself  looted 
from  a  palace  six  hundred  years  ago,  was  worth  some' 
thing  fabulous :  no  dealer  would  have  sold  her  for  sixty 
thousand  yen. 

The  lapis-lazuli  peacock,  so  exquisitely  carved  that  its 
feathers  were  fine  and  delicate  as  those  of  the  big  birds 
that  strutted  in  the  sunshine  on  the  terrace  beyond  the 
lotus  pond  (and  the  emerald  points  that  studded  each 
feather  thickly  and  the  threads  of  gold  and  silver  that 
just  showed  their  threads  of  burnishing  here  and  there 
were  real)  was  worth  its  weight  in  rubies. 

In  all  the  room — and  it  was  large — there  was  not  one 
thing  that  of  its  own  kind  was  not  the  best.'  Wu  had 
skimmed  China  relentlessly,  and  much  of  its  cream  was 
embowled  here:  Nang  Ping's.  And  China  is  wide  and 
rich.  Every  inlaid  instrument  of  music  that  strewed 
the  cushions  and  the  floor,  every  classic  book,  the  picture 
on  the  wall  (there  was  only  one  picture,  of  course — a 
landscape  by  Ma  Yuan — heavily  framed  in  carved  and 
inlaid  camphor-wood)  was  a  masterpiece,  the  culmination 
of  some  imperial  art  of  an  imperial  people,  art  begotten 
of  a  spiritual  and  indomitable  race's  genius,  and  nursed 
and  perfected  by  centuries  of  unfatigued  patience. 
Cedar  and  sandal-wood  and  ivory  hung  and  jutted  from 
walls  and  painted  ceiling  in  cornice  and  lambrequins  cut 
into  lace-work,  as  fine  (though  thicker)  and  as  beautiful 
as  any  ever  made  on  a  Belgian  pillow.  Three  hundred 
robes,  each  in  its  scented  bag  of  silk,  each  costlier  than 
the  others,  were  piled  on  the  next  room's  shelves  of 
camphor-wood,  and  the  lacquer  chests  of  drawers  and  the 
carved  coffers  that  stood  beyond  the  sleeping  mats  were 
crammed  with  jewels.  Nang  Ping  had  sapphires  that 


AT  THE  FEET  OF  KWANYIN  KO         131 

Maria  Theresa  had  worn  and  a  ruby  that  had  been 
Josephine's,  a  pearl  that  had  blinked  on  the  hand  of 
England's  Elizabeth.  She  had,  and  often  wore,  a 
diamond  that  Hwangti's  Queen  Yenfi  had  worn  four 
thousand  years  before.  And  the  girl's  best  gems  had 
been  her  mother's. 

And  in  this  toyed  temple  of  Chinese  maidenhood  and 
her  father's  devotion  Nang  Ping  lay  huddled  on  the 
floor,  "by  Love's  simplicity  betrayed,  all  soiled,  low  i' 
the  dust." 

Remember  Nang  Ping  so  long  as  you  live,  English 
Basil — while  you  live  and  after ! 

The  day  came  in,  a  lovely,  laughing  day  of  perfect 
Chinese  summer,  and  Kwanyin  Ko  blinked  and  grinned 
in  the  early  radiance. 

Nang  Ping  rose  up  a  little  and  knelt  before  the  joss, 
praying,  as  she  had  never  prayed  before,  the  old,  old 
prayer  of  tortured  womanhood,  Magdalene's  petition, 
echoing,  moaning  in  every  corner  of  earth,  girdling  the 
world  with  a  hymn  of  shame  and  with  terrible  entreaty, 
the  saddest — save  one  other — of  all  prayers ;  never  to  be 
answered  on  earth,  never  to  be  disregarded  or  coldly 
heard  in  heaven. 

And  in  another  room,  ko 'towed  before  an  uglier, 
sterner  joss — the  God  of  Justice — "Wu  the  mandarin  was 
praying  too. 

And  in  the  pagoda — for  it  was  there  that  it  had  been 
Wu  's  humor  to  prison  him — Basil  Gregory  was  praying, 
trying  to  remember  words  of  simple,  tender  supplication 
that  his  mother  had  taught  him  in  England  when  he  was 
a  little  child. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

PREPAKATION 

A  BIRD  was  singing  rapturously  in  a  honagko  tree  as 
Nang  Ping  rose  from  her  knees.  She  stood  awhile 
at  her  open  casement — it  had  been  flung  wide  all  night — 
listening  to  the  little  feathered  flutist,  saying  good-by 
to  her  garden.  The  pagoda  gleamed  like  rose-stained 
snow  in  the  rosy  sunrise,  and  the  girl  smiled  wanly, 
thinking  how  like  a  bride's  cake  it  looked — the  high 
tapering  towers,  white-sugared  and  fantastic,  that  Eng 
lish  brides  have.  She  had  seen  several  at  a  confec 
tioner  's  in  Hong  Kong,  and  she  had  seen  an  English  bride 
cut  one  with  her  husband's  sword  at  a  bridal  in  Pekin. 
It  was  far  prettier,  Nang  had  thought,  than  the  little 
cakes,  gray  and  heavy,  that  Chinese  brides  have,  but  not 
so  nice  to  the  taste — flat  and  dry.  The  lotus  flowers  were 
waking  now,  slowly  opening  their  painted  cups  of 
carmine,  white,  rose  and  amethyst;  the  peacocks  were 
preening  to  the  day,  the  king-bird  of  them  all  flinging 
out  his  jewels  to  the  sun,  and  the  shabbily-garbed  hens, 
in  the  red  kissing  of  the  sunrise  refulgence,  looking  to 
wear  breasts  of  rose.  A  lark  swayed  and  tuned  on  the 
yellow  tassel  of  a  laburnum,  and  a  bullfinch  see-sawed 
and  throated  on  the  acacia  tree.  And  every  gorgeous 
tulip  was  a  chalice  filled  with  dew. 

" Good-by,"  the  girl  said  gently,  and  turned  away. 

She  still  wore  the  rich  festive  robes  of  yesterday. 

132 


PREPARATION  133 

She  began  to  take  them  off,  slowly,  drawing  strings  from 
their  knottings,  slipping  hooks  from  their  silver  eyes, 
pushing  jewel-buttons  out  of  their  holes,  letting  the 
loosened  garments  fall  one  by  one  in  a  rainbow  heap  of 
silk  upon  the  floor  (as  "Wu,  when  a  boy,  had  shed  furs 
and  gems  upon  a  floor  in  Sze-chuan).  Her  women 
would  find  and  fold  them  presently.  But  it  mattered 
nothing.  Nothing  mattered  now. 

She  still  was  wearing  her  nail-protectors,  two  on  each 
hand — necessary  adjuncts  to  the  toilet  and  to  the  com 
fort  of  many  Chinese  ladies,  whose  long  spiral  nails 
would  be  a  torture  if  unprotected.  But  it  had  been 
Wu's  pleasure  to  have  Nang  Ping  taught  the  piano,  and 
so,  of  course,  she  had  to  wear  her  nails  short.  But  when 
ever  she  was  "dressed"  she  wore  the  fantastic  orna 
ments,  to  indicate  that  "Wu's  daughter  did  not  work. 
She  discarded  them  now,  and  listlessly  let  them  fall  upon 
the  silks  heaped  at  her  feet :  two  were  of  green  jade  (one 
finely  carved,  one  studded  with  diamonds),  one  was 
silver  set  with  rubies,  the  fourth  was  gold  set  with  pearls 
and  moonstones. 

When  all  the  finery — such  finery  as  Europe  never 
sees,  except  burlesqued  on  the  stage — had  been  cast  off, 
she  began  to  re-dress  herself,  steadily  and  very  care 
fully. 

From  the  silver  ewer  she  poured  water  into  the  silver 
basin.  It  needed  both  her  hands  and  much  of  her 
strength  to  lift  the  ewer;  it  was  heavy  with  the  precious 
metal's  weight,  and  she  had  never  lifted  it  before.  In 
all  her  life  she  had  never  once  dressed  or  undressed  her 
self.  "When  the  attar  and  the  sweet  vinegars  had 
creamed  in  the  basin  she  bathed  her  face  again  and  again 
until  all  the  paint  was  gone.  She  only  wore  rouge  and 
thick-crusted  white  paint  on  days  of  function  and  of 


134  MR.  WU 

festival.  On  days  of  homely  ease  and  uncerernonied 
home-keeping  her  skin  was  as  clean  and  unprofaned  as 
a  baby 's. 

It  is  a  canon  of  Chinese  womanhood  never  quite  to 
undress  unnecessarily.  Modesty  at  her  toilet,  even  when 
performing  it  alone,  is  enjoined  the  Manchu  girl  as  it  is 
the  Catholic  girl  of  Europe.  And  this  Manchu  nice- 
ness  has  permeated  the  other  Chinese  races.  And  in 
China  a  maid  would  be  held  not  chary,  but  prodigal  in 
deed,  did  "she  unmask  her  beauty  to  the  moon."  A 
land  of  several  peoples  sharply  distinct  in  much.  China 
is  in  much  else  the  land  of  great  racial  amalgamation. 
And  it  is  impossible  to  trace  back  to  their  source  many 
of  this  wonderful  people  rs  most  salient  qualities.  Tartar 
has  infected  Mongol,  Mongol  inoculated  Tartar,  Taoist 
taught  Mohammedan,  Confucianism  and  Buddhism  have 
mixed  and  fused,  Teng-Shui  tinged  all,  sometimes  taint 
ing  and  degrading,  occasionally  idealizing  and  lifting  up 
to  poetry.  And  modesty  of  body  is  simple  instinct  with 
Chinese  girls  of  every  blend  and  caste.  Nor  is  it  lost — 
as  so  many  of  youth 's  sweetnesses  always  must  be  every 
where—in  the  gray  slough  of  old  age.  Nowhere  in 
China  will  you  encounter  the  unique  exhibitions  of 
antique  female  nudity  that  occasionally  startle  one  so 
extraordinarily  in  Japan.  The  old  women  of  China, 
even  the  poorest,  are  always  clad,  and  a  Chinese  girl 
slips  from  the  screening  of  her  smock  into  the  screening 
of  her  bubbling  bath  without  an  instant's  flash  of 
interim. 

The  early  daylight  showed  Nang  Ping  very  lovely,  as 
she  stood  there  in  her  one  last  garment.  Chinese  women 
of  the  mandarin  class  are  often  exquisitely  lovely, 
especially  those  of  mingled  Manchu  and  Mongol  bloods. 
Nang's  sorrow  was  too  new  to  have  bleared  or  blowsed 


PREPARATION 


135 


her  yet ;  it  had  but  thrown  a  gracious,  pathetic  delicacy 
about  her  as  a  veil.  And  even  the  charming  coloring  of 
her  was  not  impaired. 

There  is  no  greater  beauty  of  coloring  than  the  color 
ing  of  such  girls — not  in  England,  not  in  Spain. 
Nang  Ping's  skin  was  no  darker  than  the  liquor  of  the 
finest  Chinese  tea,  and  not  unlike  it  in  hue,  not  green, 
not  buff,  but  white,  just  hinting  of  each,  and  in  her 
cheeks  the  delicate  pink  of  a  tea  rose  told  how  red  the 
blood  at  her  heart  was,  and  how  thin  the  patrician  skin 
that  masked  and  yet  revealed  it.  The  little  figure,  tall 
for  a  Chinese,  was  tenderly  drawn  and  perfectly  pro 
portioned;  the  young  presence,  for  all  its  gentleness, 
was  queenly;  the  firmly  modeled  head  was  well  set  on 
the  straight  shoulders.  Hair  could  not  be  blacker  or 
arched  jet  brows  more  beautifully  drawn.  The  girl's 
mobile  mouth  was  large,  but  exquisitely  shaped,  and  her 
red  lips  parted  and  closed  over  teeth  that  could  not  have 
been  whiter,  more  faultless  or  more  prettily  set.  There 
was  a  dimple  in  the  obstinate  chin,  and  one  beneath  the 
tiny  mole  on  her  right  cheek ;  and  her  black,  velvet  eyes 
(soft  now,  and  almost  purple  with  unshed  tears)  were 
as  straight  set  in  the  small  head  as  the  eyes  of  any  Venus 
in  Vatican  or  Louvre. 

She  stood  a  moment,  gazing  into  space,  clad  only  in 
her  delieate  smock,  and  then  slowly  she  redressed  herself 
in  her  simplest  robes — soft,  loose  and  gray.  She  had 
many  such  gowns,  and  wore  them  often.  The  Chinese 
are  too  greatly,  too  finely  artist  to  let  the  gorgeousness 
in  which  they  gloat  degenerate  by  over-use  into  a  com 
monplace.  The  blare  of  their  brazen  music  has  its  long 
reliefs  of  slow,  soft  minor  passages ;  their  gayest  gardens 
have  prominent  heaps  of  dull,  barren  stone,  long  stretches 
of  cold,  gray  walls ;  each  sumptuous  room  has  its  empty, 


136  MR.  WU 

restful  corner.  Nang  Ping  had  fifty  pictures  of  great 
price,  and  more  ivories,  each  a  gem,  but  all  the  pictures 
save  one,  all  the  ivories  save  one,  were  stowed  away  al 
ways,  and  just  one  at  a  time  placed  where  it  might  joy 
her  sight;  and  most  often  she  moved  softly  about  her 
home  habited  in  plain  raiment  of  neutral  tints  as  gentle 
as  a  dove's. 

Her  hair  took  her  longest.  She  had  never  brushed  it 
before,  and  the  unguent  took  time  to  remove.  But  at 
last  even  that  was  done,  the  jeweled  pins  heaped  away, 
the  long  black  strands  braided  about  her  head. 

And  then  she  sat  down  on  the  floor  again,  her  cold, 
ringless  hands  clasped  at  her  knees,  and  waited  and 
listened  until  her  father's  gong  should  strike. 

She  knew  that  she  should  hear  it  presently. 

Once  she  started,  and  caught  up  from  the  floor  a  little 
scented  bead.  She  held  it  to  her  face,  and  then  laid  it 
away  in  her  bosom.  It  was  her  father's,  one  of  a  string 
he  often  wore,  and  in  her  bitter  misery  she  was 
pathetically  a  little  happier  for  the  proof  it  gave  her 
that  his  own  hands  had  carried  her  here.  She  would 
keep  it  in  her  bosom  always — while  she  lived. 

Twice  servants  came  in  with  trays  of  food  and  drink ; 
blanc-mange,  soup,  tea  and  wine.  They  made  deep 
obeisance  to  her  when  they  came  and  when  they  went. 
But  she  did  not  speak  to  them,  nor  they  to  her. 

And  no  message  came  until  the  message  of  the  great 
gong's  soft  boom. 


CHAPTER  XX 
WHAT  "Wu  DID  IN  PROOF  OF  LOVE 

WU,  when  he  had  laid  Nang  Ping  on  her  mats  and 
covered  her,  went  to  his  library,  and  sat  thinking 
through  the  night. 

When  he  had  lifted  her,  he  had  not  glanced  at  the 
Englishman,  nor  had  he  even  looked  in  the  direction  of 
prison  or  prisoner  since.  The  servants  had  their  orders. 
Those  orders  would  be  obeyed.  With  Basil  Gregory,  Wu 
had  nothing  more  to  do — yet. 

All  night  long  he  scarcely  moved  by  so  much  as  the 
drumming  of  finger  or  toe,  by  so  much  as  the  quiver  of 
a  lash.  None  of  Nang  Ping's  restlessness  was  shared  by 
him.  He  was  beyond  restlessness.  His  agony  was  ab 
solute.  Mothers  suffer  acutely  when  daughters  "fall" 
— good  mothers  and  bad.  But  such  mothers '  sorrow  can 
never  equal  the  red  torment  of  fatherhood  so  punished. 
Nature  holds  stricter  justice  between  sex  and  sex  than 
she  is  credited.  And  such  partiality  and  unfair  favori 
tism  as  he  does  show  now  and  then  is  given,  as  is  the 
gross  favoritism  of  man-made  laws  constantly  (in  Europe 
and  in  Asia) ,  to  women. 

Analyze  what  law  of  life  you  will,  and  the  resultant 
conclusion  will  have  something  to  testify  of  Chinese  wise- 
ness.  The  punishment  of  a  crime  never  falls  solely  upon 
the  direct  miscreant.  Blood  and  love  must  pay  their 
debt.  And  the  Chinese  legal  code  which  allows  and 
decrees  that  kindred  shall  suffer  (even  to  capital  punish- 

137 


138  MR.  WU 

ment)  for  a  kinsman's  crime  is  less  fantastic  and  less 
fatuous  than  it  seems  to  Western  minds. 

Basil  Gregory  and  Nang  Ping  had  sinned.  Wu  and 
Florence  Gregory  were  to  be  punished  with  them.  And 
because  Nature  forgives  man  less  than  she  forgives 
woman,  the  sharper,  surer  punishment  was  to  fall  on 
the  father  and  the  son. 

Compared  with  one  year  in  "Wu's  life,  the  joy  Nang 
Ping  had  stolen  in  the  garden  was  but  "as  water  unto 
wine."  And,  suffering  now  to  her  sharp  young  utmost, 
she  was  suffering  less  than  he. 

When  day  came  he  rose,  as  Nang  Ping  did,  and  went 
to  the  window.  Her  room  was  on  the  one  higher  floor; 
his  looked  almost  level  with  the  garden — his  own  garden. 
For  he  too  had  his  own  private  pleasance,  taboo  to  all, 
unless  expressly  bidden  there.  And  Wu  rarely  gave  that 
permission,  even  to  Nang  Ping.  That  bit  of  garden  was 
his  outer  solitude,  and  this  room  was  his  indoor  privacy. 
It  was  here  and  there  he  kept  alone. 

No  race  prizes  privacy  more,  more  realizes  its  value, 
conserves  and  guards  it  with  more  dignity  and  skill, 
or  with  so  much.  A  people  of  interminable  clans,  knit 
together  and  interdependent  as  is  no  other  people,  yet 
it  is  with  the  Chinese  people,  both  Mongol  and  Tartar, 
that  individuality  has  its  fullest  rights,  its  surest  safety. 

Towards  noon  he  bathed,  put  on  again  his  plain  dark 
robes,  went  into  the  great  hall  and  ate  a  little  rice.  He 
had  work  ahead,  much  work,  and  he  intended  to  do  it 
well.  He  had  no  more  time  for  thought,  nor  need.  His 
thinking  was  done.  His  years  of  selfishness  were  past. 
He  no  longer  saw  or  felt  "a  divided  duty."  He  was 
China's  now — Wu  the  mandarin.  Each  hour  should  be 
full.  He  would  serve  assiduously  and  relentlessly,  not 
with  brooding  thought,  but  with  action  piled  «n  action. 


WHAT  WU  DID  IN  PROOF  OF  IOVE      139 

At  dusk  he  smote  upon  the  gong  hanging  in  the  smaller 
audience  hall,  an  apartment  half  of  state  and  half  of 
intimacy. 

Nang  Ping  heard  the  deep  notes  reverberate  through 
the  house — she  had  been  listening  for  the  sound  all  day 
— and  rose  to  her  feet  before  they  died  away.  She  was 
standing  ready  at  her  door  when  her  father's  message 
came,  and  she  followed  the  servant,  for  herself  relieved 
that  her  waiting  was  done,  for  herself  feeling  little  else, 
but  miserable  for  Wu.  He  had  been  tender  to  her  al 
ways,  and  she  had  loved  him  with  an  absorbing  love, 
until  the  Englishman  had  come  to  kiss  her  face,  dislocate 
her  life  and  change  her  soul. 

She  went  in  steadily  and  alone,  bent  in  obeisance  three 
times,  and  then  stood  before  her  father  quietly,  her 
hands  folded  meekly  at  her  breast,  her  eyes  patient  and 
sorrowful,  but  not  afraid. 

And  she  was  not  afraid.  Basil  was  dead  by  now — 
she  made  no  doubt  of  that;  the  spoiler  of  Wu's  daughter 
could  not  have  lived  in  Wu's  vengeance  for  a  day. 
There  was  no  more  to  fear  for  Basil.  For  him  the  worst 
had  come,  am  I  was  done.  For  herself  fear  had  no  place 
in  her  now.  Her  father  would  not  torture  her — that  she 
knew.  But  fhe  thought  that  she  should  scarcely  have 
winced  if  he  1  lad.  A  slight,  slip  of  a  girl,  slim  as  willow 
in  her  scant  dull  robe,  she  came  of  a  race  whose  women 
had  hung  themselves  more  than  once  to  honor  a  hus 
band's  obseqries;  and  one — a  queen — had  burned  to  her 
death,  lightin/f  beside  the  imperial  grave  her  own  funeral 
pile  of  teak-  and  sandal-woods,  oil-and-perfume  drenched, 
Nang  Ping  was  not  afraid. 

"Wu  met  her  eyes,  and  she  met  his;  and  his  were  not 
unkind. 

"Will  you  tell  me  all?"    Wu  did  not  speak  unkindlyc 


140  MR.  WU 

And  this  was  the  first  time  he  had  couched  command  tf 
her  in  interrogative. 

"My  honorable  father,"  the  girl  said  sadly,  "I  will 
tell  you  nothing." 

The  mandarin  smiled.  This  was  too  grave  a  time  for 
anger.  And  he  had  a  bribe  that  he  knew  could  be 
trusted  to  buy  from  her  what  he  would,  let  the  telling 
cost  her  what  it  might. 

He  had  never  bribed  his  child,  not  even  with  sugar 
plums  for  her  smiles  when  she  was  a  babe.  But  he  would 
bribe  her  now.  Their  old  days  were  done,  and  with  them 
some  old  principles  of  conduct.  And  their  old  relation 
ship — spoiled  now — was  drawing  to  its  close. 

"You  fear  to  injure  the  Englishman!"  But  even 
that  he  did  not  say  roughly. 

"My  honorable  father,  not  that.  He  is  past  beyond 
injury  now;  Nang  Ping  knows  that." 

Again  he  smiled.  But  he  only  said,  "You  fear  to 
implicate  Low  Soong?" 

At  that  Nang  Ping  raised  her  eyes  to  his  in  entreaty. 

"Have  no  fear.  No  punishment  shall  fall  on  her. 
She  is  not  worth  it.  She  shall  be  well  dowered  and 
honorably  wed  soon.  She  has  dealt  ill  by  me,  and  by 
you,  her  kinswoman,  foully;  but  even  so,  I  will  not  do 
her  an  injustice  to  you.  She  never  betrayed  you.  In  her 
first  panic  the  slight,  silly  frog-thing  fled — to  save  her 
own  dishonest  skin — but  she  came  back  but  now,  creep 
ing  to  share  your  lot,  and  begging  to  speak  with  you. 
Do  you  care  to  see  her  ? ' ' 

"I  wish  to  see  no  one,  0  honorable  sir." 

"I  thought  you  would  answer  so.  Be  at  rest  for  her. 
She  shall  fare  well."  He  did  not  add  that  he  would 
keep  his  word.  There  was  no  need:  Nang  Ping  knew 
it. 


WHAT  WU  DID  IN  PROOF  OF  LOVE      141 

He  called  for  lights,  and  when  the  red  candles  were 
lit  and  the  sweet  torches  in  their  sconces  until  all  the 
room  flamed  with  light,  and  the  noiseless  servants  had 
withdrawn  to  await  his  next  command,  whether  it  came 
in  a  moment  or  in  a  year,  he  began  to  speak  again.  And 
because  he  was  Chinese,  and  because  he  still  loved  her 
well,  his  words  were  long. 

"Sit.  Listen.  I  am  not  blameless.  I  shall  be  blame 
less  from  this  hour.  My  venerable,  honorable  grand 
father,  the  sainted  Wu  Ching  Yu,  dedicated  me  to  a 
great  task.  I  have  obeyed  him  for  the  most,  fulfilled  it 
in  the  main,  but  not  with  the  single  purpose  such  high 
duty  claims.  I  loved  your  mother.  That  was  most 
right.  Less  would  have  wronged  her;  and  she  was 
fragrant  as  the  yellow  musk,  holy  as  the  queen-star.  But 
for  one  celestial  year,  at  her  plum-blossom  side,  I  forgot 
my  task ;  at  least  I  let  it  wait,  and  sometimes  I  have  let 
it  wait  for  you.  Not  again  shall  I  do  so.  Scarcely  time 
for  suitable  penance  will  I  allow  myself.  I  am  Wu,  and 
the  house  of  "Wu  shall  be  avenged.  I  shall  live  for  that 
and  for  China.  My  venerable  grandfather,  three  thou 
sand  times  wise,  did  well  to  send  me  to  England.  And 
he  bade  me  study  Englishmen  closely.  But  I  did  ill  to 
take  to  myself  too  much  of  their  custom.  We  have 
learned  too  much  of  Europe.  It  is  well  to  learn  of  every 
nation,  but  to  accept  too  much  from  inferior  peoples  is 
a  hideous  crime:  and  in  that  crime  I  have  shared  to 
China's  hurt — and  yours.  You  are  undone.  China  is 
threatened  with  the  loss  of  all  that  has  made  her  for 
thousands  of  years  paramount  and  exquisite.  Some 
times,  alone  at  night,  I  have  thought  that  I  have  heard 
the  wind  cry,  and  Heaven  sob,  and  the  parting  knell  of 
China  toll.  And  I  have  thrown  myself  prostrate  before 
our  gods,  and  entreated  that  China — our  China— may 


142  MR.  WU 

prove  stronger  than  her  enemies,  stronger  than  her  fools. 
But  my  soul  aches.  For  I  realize  that  change  is  in  our 
air,  from  Canton  to  Pekin,  from  Ningpo  to  Tibet,  and 
that  any  hour  revolution  may  strike  our  mighty  empire  to 
the  heart.  The  rebel,  the  missionary,  the  fanatic  and  the 
adventurer,  the  foe  without  and  the  dolt  within,  press 
her  hard.  Her  plight  is  sore  to-day.  But  China  has 
held  together  longer  than  any  other  empire  in  history. 
We  Chinese  never  forget,  and  we  do  not  meekly  forgive. 
Again  and  again  we  have  seemed  to  accept  innovations, 
have  tried  them,  have  found  them  unacceptable,  and 
then  we  have  discarded  them  once  and  forever.  We 
are  in  peril  now;  but  the  end  is  not  yet.  Already  the 
word  passes  over  China,  as  a  breath  of  summer  over  the 
head-heavy  poppy  fields,  'Back  to  Confucius' !  And  I — I 
descended  from  that  great  sage — I,  too,  who  love  China 
as  I  did  not  love  your  mother — I,  too,  have  betrayed 
China — and  you !  I  have  given  you  a  freedom  that  was 
in  itself  a  soil  to  a  maiden.  I  ask  your  pardon.  All 
night  long  I  have  asked  your  honorable  mother's,  and 
the  forgiveness  of  my  most  noble  ancestors.  You  have 
been  to  me  both  son  and  daughter ;  the  women  of  the  Wus 
have  often  been  so,  and  endowed  in  it  with  great  merit. 
But  in  me  it  was  a  sin.  But  from  this  I  shall  be  wholly 
China's.  This  moon  I  perform  a  duty  to  our  house — my 
last  selfish  rite.  It  done,  I  am  my  country's,  my  peo 
ple  's.  I  shall  wed  now,  and  give  my  honorable  ancestors 
other  sons,  China  men-Wus  to  be  her  rulers  and  her  serv 
ants.  That  I  have  not  done  so  before  is  my  crime.  1 
thought  to  adopt  your  husband,  or  if  that  might  not  be, 
he  too  highly  ranked  in  his  own  great  clan,  one  of  your 
younger  sons,  that  all  I  had  might  go  to  you  and  to  one 
you  had  borne.  I  sinned  to  think  it.  Adoption  is  hon 
orable,  decreed  of  our  sages,  countenanced  of  our  gods, 


WHAT  WU  DID  IN  PROOF  OF  LOVE      143 

but  only  for  those  to  whom  sons  of  their  bodies  are  de 
nied.  A  man  should  beget  men,  father  his  own  heir." 

He  said  much  more.  It  was  his  last  indulgence  of 
self,  for  even  his  stern  resolve  yearned  over  her,  and  his 
tortured  heart  delayed  the  parting  with  the  girl.  He 
spoke  of  her  childhood  and  of  his  own.  But  of  the  high 
traditions  of  the  women  of  its  blood,  upon  which  their 
great  house  was  built  as  on  an  impregnable  rock,  he  did 
not  speak  again.  He  spared  her  that — his  only  child,  the 
first  woman  of  her  name  to  err  in  the  degree  that  is  not 
forgiven  Chinese  gentlewomen. 

Presently  he  commanded  again — and  no  question  now 
— that  she  should  tell  him  all,  and  commanding  turned 
his  screw. 

"He  is  not  dead,"  he  said.  "He  lives.  He  is  un 
harmed."  Nang  Ping  swayed  a  little  on  her  stool  and 
caught  at  her  knees  with  her  hands.  "Tell  me  all." 

"0  honorable  sir,"  she  sobbed,  huddling  at  his  feet, 
"I  cannot." 

Wu  smiled.  "All!  Omit  nothing.  You  can  save 
\Jm  so!" 

Nang  Ping  started  up,  sitting  bolt  on  her  heels,  and 
searched  her  father's  face  with  narrow  eyes  widened  and 
piteous. 

"All!     And  he  shall  live.     Even,  he  shall  go  free!" 

Nang  Ping  moaned,  hung  down  her  head,  and  began 
to  speak,  for  she  knew  that  Wu  Li  Chang  would  keep  his 
word.  And  even  this  price  of  shame  her  discarded  love 
would  pay  to  save  her  man.  Her  words  came  with  tor 
tured  breath — in  gasps.  But  it  was  for  Basil,  and  she 
kept  her  bond.  She  told  of  their  first  meeting  and  their 
last.  She  told  it  all — all  but  those  utmost  things  that 
never  have  been  told,  and  never  can,  and  in  China  least 
of  alL 


144  MR.  WU 

Why  Wu  exacted  it  was  hard  to  say.  Perhaps  he 
could  not  have  told  himself.  If  it  tortured  her,  more  it 
tortured  him  an  hundred  fold.  And  there  was  little  of 
it  in  detail,  nothing  of  it  in  essential,  that  he  did  not  al 
ready  know.  Much  of  it  he  knew  better  and  deeper  than 
she  did.  Perhaps  to  hear  it  from  her  lips  was  no  small 
part  of  a  self-inflicted  punishment  he  had  decreed  his 
scourge  since  he  had  been  so  lax  a  father — lax  a  father, 
and  he  Chinese!  And  she  motherless! 

He  heard  her  in  silence — without  once  a  word  of 
prompting  or  of  interruption.  And  not  once  did  she 
raise  her  head  or  look  at  him.  If  she  had  looked,  her 
faltering  words  must  have  died.  For  his  face  twitched 
with  convulsive  pain  again  and  again,  and  foam  beaded 
white  on  his  clenched  lips. 

There  was  a  long  silence  when  she  had  done,  and 
neither  moved. 

At  last  he  said,  "Is  there  something  you  would  ask 
of  me,  some  message  you  would  give?" 

Nang  Ping  trembled  violently.  But  the  message  her 
soul  cried  out  to  send  she  dared  not  speak;  and  if  she 
had  dared,  surely  she  must  have  spared  him  it,  for  she 
was  gentle,  and  he  had  always  loved  her  well  and  shown 
her  tenderness.  When  she  could  command  herself  a 
little,  she  said,  falteringly,  "If  Low  Soong  might  have  a 
jewel  or  a  robe — one,  from  me." 

"Of  all  that  was  not  your  mother's  or  my  mother's, 
or  any  mothers'  of  theirs,  Low  Soong  shall  choose  all 
that  she  will.  And  I  promise  you  that  I  will  bear  that 
frail  no  ill-will.  It  was  not  for  her  to  guard  what  I, 
your  father,  failed  to  guard." 

Nang  Ping  tried  to  thank  him,  but  she  could  only  bow 
her  head  and  lay  it  near  his  shoe.  She  dared  not  touch 


WHAT  WU  DID  IN  PROOF  OF  LOVE       145 

that  shoe.  It  was  an  old,  easy  shoe.  She  had  em 
broidered  it  when  a  child. 

"The  day  grows  warm,"  Wu  said  presently,  rising 
and  bidding  her  rise.  And  when  she  stood  before  him, 
he  laid  his  hand  a  moment  on  her  shoulder  and  said 
softly,  "Nang  Ping!"  for  she  was  motherless,  and  very 
young,  and  he  loved  her  still. 

' '  The  day  grows  warm.  Go  to  the  casement  and  tell  me 
if  the  sun  is  on  the  tulip  tree. ' '  And  as  she  moved  away, 
without  a  sound  he  seized  the  great  sword  hanging  be 
side  the  shrine  and  struck  her  once. 

It  was  enough. 

She  scarcely  moaned — just  a  soft  quick  sigh — and  one 
smothered  word. 

"Wu  Li  Chang  caught  the  sigh  but  not  the  word. 
Surely  Kwanyin  Ko  had  granted  something  of  Nang 
Ping 's  prayer,  and  was  merciful  to  Wu  in  that.  For  the 
Chinese  girl  had  died  speaking  an  English  name. 

He  did  not  catch  the  word ;  but  he  saw  something  fall 
from  her  dress  and  roll  towards  the  altar,  and  he  rose  and 
found  it — a  little  scented  bead. 

And  all  night  long,  until  the  day  broke  over  China, 
Wu  sat  motionless  and  alone  in  the  room  where  he  had 
played  with  her  often  in  her  baby  days,  taught  her  as 
a  child,  decorated  her  fresh  young  womanhood  with 
gems  and  love:  sat  immovable  and  alone,  while  the 
heart's  blood  of  his  only  child  clotted  and  crusted  at 
his  feet. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
A  CONFERENCE 

LORD  MELBOURNE  once  said  that  "nobody  has  ever 
done  a  very  foolish  thing  except  for  some  great  prin 
ciple. "  Well,  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  the  great 
principle  underlying  most  of  the  very  foolish  things  the 
average  European  does  in  Asia.  As  a  nation  we  British 
are  very  wise  in  our  conduct  there.  As  a  race  we  deal 
honorably  with  the  Oriental  peoples — when  once  we've 
conquered  them — and  honorable  conduct  is  a  high  wis 
dom  in  itself,  and  from  it  we  reap  a  fine  reward — the 
respect  of  the  Eastern  races.  But  as  individuals  we 
perpetrate  a  long  series  of  crass  blunders,  of  petty  daily 
idiocies,  whose  sum  total  is  tragedy  and  sometimes 
threatens  international  holocaust.  And  it  is  the  English 
woman,  not  the  Englishman,  who  is  the  worst  offender. 
Our  security  in  Asia  is  built  up  on  Oriental  respect  and 
liking,  and  Mrs.  Montmorency-Jones  can  do  more  in  a 
day  to  undermine  it  than  a  Sir  Harry  Parkes  can  do  in  a 
month  to  build  it.  Insolence  is  her  method ;  fair  dealing 
is  his. 

The  average  British  man  in  Asia  learns  little  enough, 
Heaven  knows !  of  the  natives  among  whom  he  lives ; 
the  average  British  woman  learns  nothing.  She  does  not 
decline  to  know  the  natives;  no,  indeed — she  simply 
ignores  them.  Woman  rules  in  Asia — and  especially 
in  China — as  (if  a  woman  may  be  allowed  to  hint  it)  she 
does  almost  everywhere.  And  Englishwomen  living  in 
Calcutta  or  Shanghai  do  English  interests  grave  injury 

146 


A  CONFERENCE 


H7 


?>y  courting,  winning  (and  meriting)  the  dislike  of  In 
dian  and  Chinese  women.  The  Englishwoman  does  it  not 
by  any  overt  act  or  series  of  acts,  but  by  a  consistent 
supercilious  contemptuousness  of  attitude.  I  am  a  mem- 
sahib.  You  do  not  exist.  The  secret  societies — the  tongs 
and  the  brotherhoods — are  responsible  for  much  of  our 
Asiatic  difficulties;  our  own  women  are  responsible  for 
more.  If  the  Boxers  made  Pekin  run  red  with  European 
blood,  some  women  of  the  European  Legations  did  even 
more  to  bring  down  the  trouble  and  to  foment  it. 

And  the  pity  of  it  is  its  absolute  unnecessariness : 
just  a  cup  of  cold  water  now  and  then,  just  a  little 
human  kindliness  now  and  then,  and  the  liking  and 
sympathy  of  Oriental  womanhood  were  ours.  Some  one 
has  written  of  "the  heart  that  must  beat  somewhere 
beneath  the  impenetrable  Oriental  mask."  The  mask 
is  not  impenetrable.  An  honest,  friendly  smile  will 
pierce  it.  The  Oriental  is  nine-tenths  heart.  A  typical 
Asiatic  can  be  won  by  moderate  kindness  to  great  loyalty 
and  devotion.  Page  after  page  of  the  history  of  the 
Indian  mutiny  proves  it. 

And  of  the  Chinese  people  this  is  even  truer. 

Florence  Gregory  was  a  kindly,  likeable  woman,  and 
during  her  year  in  Hong  Kong  she  had  not  thought  it 
necessary  to  make  herself  detestable  to  the  Chinese  with 
whom  she  came  in  contact. 

On  her  part  this  was  neither  tact  nor  studied  policy. 
They  interested  her  and  she  liked  them,  and  in  return 
they  liked  her.  She  gave  them  courtesy  and  decent 
treatment,  and  sometimes  a  sunny  word  or  two,  and  in 
return  they  gave  her  of  their  best  and  served  her  loyally. 
Ah  Wong,  her  amah,  adored  her. 

There  was  nothing  that  Ah  Wong  waald  not  have 
done  for  her  English  mistress.  And  the  story  of  it  is 


148  MR.  WU 

this:  Mrs.  Gregory  had  nev&r  saved  Ah  Wong's  life  or 
rescued  her  son  from  slavery.  She  had  just  been  quietly 
and  decently  kind  to  her  in  the  little  daily  ways.  Oh! 
those  little  ways,  the  little  things — too  small  to  chronicle, 
almost  too  small  to  sense  sometimes — but  to  women  they 
are  everything!  The  big  things  scarcely  count  to 
women;  but  the  little  things — they  count. 

"When  Basil  Gregory  did  not  keep  his  promise  to  dine 
at  their  hotel  his  mother  was  disappointed,  but  not  in 
ordinately  surprised,  and  only  moderately  hurt.  It  had 
happened  before. 

They  waited  dinner  half  an  hour.  Robert  Gregory 
would  not  allow  a  longer  waiting.  And  even  the  mother 
dined  with  an  unruffled  appetite.  Even  when  midnight 
came  without  him  it  occurred  to  no  one  to  be  in  the  least 
alarmed — to  no  one  but  Ah  Wong. 

Ah  Wong  had  seen  the  impalpable  intrinsic  stalking 
in  the  garden  at  Kowloon.  And  what  she  saw  alarmed 
her  then.  Basil's  continued  absence  alarmed  her  more 
and  more.  She  was  alarmed  for  her  mistress's  peace  of 
mind.  Basil  himself  she  neither  liked  nor  disliked.  She 
thought  Robert  Gregory  a  funny  old  chap.  The  son  did 
not  interest  her. 

When  Basil  did  not  appear  at  the  office  the  next  day 
his  father  was  angry.  When  three  days  passed,  and  no 
word  came  of  the  truant,  they  were  alarmed — all  of  them. 
And  in  a  week  the  island  rang  with  hue  and  cry  for  him. 

Mrs.  Gregory  was  distraught. 

Perhaps  the  son's  disappearance  might  have  worried 
the  father  even  more  if  there  had  been  no  other  pressing 
anxieties.  But  there  were — several. 

There  was  the  very  deuce  to  pay  at  the  Hong  Kong 
branch  of  the  Gregory  Steamship  Company,  and  a  good 
deal  of  inadequacy  with  which  to  pay  it. 


A  CONFERENCE  149 

It  was  a  bright,  hot  day — a  blue  and  gold  day,  without 
a  trace  of  Hong  Kong  mist  and  murk — and  the  windows 
in  the  manager's  room  were  open  wide.  The  furniture 
was  sparse  but  rich;  it  was  Robert  Gregory's  own  room, 
and  he  was  of  the  type  of  business  man  who  likes  to  do 
himself  well  in  the  format  of  his  office  routine,  more  in  a 
sincere  pride  in  his  business  cult  than  in  personal  vanity 
or  any  pampering  of  self,  and  also  in  a  well-defined 
theory  of  advertisement:  Persian  carpets  and  Spanish 
mahogany  desks  indicate  a  firm's  prosperity  clearly. 
Gregory's  furniture  was  very  expensive,  but  sensible, 
solid  and  untrimmed.  He  earned  and  amassed  money 
in  big  ways  and  in  small,  but,  in  the  main,  he  left  the 
spending  of  it  on  fripperies  to  Hilda  and  his  wife.  A 
photograph  of  Hilda — the  one  ornament  the  office  con 
fessed  to — stood  on  her  father's  desk,  in  a  splendid  wide 
frame  that  might  have  been  Chinese,  so  costly  and  so 
barbaric  was  it,  had  only  the  design  and  the  workmanship 
been  better.  But  if  the  picture  was  somewhat  over- 
framed,  its  girl-subject  was  not  over-dressed,  for  English 
Hilda,  who  from  her  father 's  office  table  smiled  up  at  all 
the  world,  was  several  inches  more  decollete  than  even 
the  moon  had  ever  seen  Nang  Ping. 

But  modesty  and  even  decency  are  as  much  virtues 
of  the  eye  that  looks  as  of  the  creatures  of  its  glance; 
and  John  Bradley,  sitting  in  Robert  Gregory's  chair, 
saw  only  maidenhood  delectable  and  flawless  in  the  pic 
ture  his  eyes  sought  again  and  again.  And  any  man 
who,  to  Robert  Gregory's  knowledge,  had  seen  anything 
coarser,  Robert  Gregory  would  have  shot  cheerfully. 

Holman,  Gregory's  head  clerk,  sat  moodily  opposite 
the  priest,  looking  out  into  the  quay.  The  long  window 
he  faced  was  the  apartment's  most  conspicuous  feature, 
and  through  it  outrolled  a  teeming  panorama  of  steam- 


150  MR.  WU 

ships  and  shipping  industries.  Docks  and  shipping  in 
the  near  distance  looked  even  nearer  in  the  clear  mag 
nifying  atmosphere,  and  close  at  hand  smoke  curled 
up  from  the  funnels  of  a  large  steamer,  flying  the  house 
flag  of  the  company — a  noticeable  pennant  even  in  that 
harbor,  where  noticeable  objects  jostle  each  other  by 
the  hundreds.  The  big  lettering— " G.  S.  S.  Co."— was 
as  bright  and  blue  as  the  sky  against  whose  brilliant 
background  the  smoke  belched  forth  from  the  fat  fun 
nels,  and  the  bunting  that  backgrounded  the  letters  was 
yellow — impertinently  yellow,  for  it  was  of  the  precise 
shade  that  in  Pekin  would  have  spelled  death  to  any 
other  who  wore  it  or  showed  it  on  his  chair,  so  sacred 
was  it  to  reigning  Emperor  and  Empress.  But  Robert 
Gregory  did  not  know  that,  nor  did  Holman.  But  they 
should  have  known  it — certainly  Holman  should,  for  he 
had  lived  in  China  many  years  now,  and  was  far  from 
being  so  crassly  stupid  concerning  the  Chinese  as  his 
chief  was. 

Between  the  big  ship  and  the  office  building  a  constant 
procession  of  coolies  passed  up  and  down  the  dock,  and 
the  hum  of  their  incessant  intoned  chatter  filled  the 
room  with  a  noisy  sing-song  that  rose  and  fell  but  never 
rested  or  drew  breath. 

On  a  rostrum  behind  the  Fee  Chow's  side,  Simpson, 
an  old  and  trusted  clerk,  was  watching  the  coolies  load, 
and  a  Chinese  clerk  perched  near  him  on  a  high  stool, 
checking  each  bale  and  box.  A  compradore  sat  at  his 
desk  on  the  wharf,  wrangling  with  a  knot  of  loin-clothed 
coolies  who  were  gesticulating  wildly  with  arms  and  poles 
and  chattering  like  angry  chimpanzees. 

"And  that  is  all  you  can  tell  me?"  Holman  said,  as 
Bradley  rose  to  go. 


A  CONFERENCE  151 

"All  I  care  to  say.  I've  strained  a  point  to  say  that 
much. ' ' 

"And  you  will  not  tell  me  where  you  got  your  infor 
mation?  Is  that  quite  fair?" 

John  Bradley  shook  his  head.  ''Not  information.  I 
have  no  information — none.  But  I  have  my  suspicion, 
and  I  believe  it  is  well  based." 

"Built  on  Chinese  rock!" 

"Well — yes — in  part.  And  I  have  a  great  deal  of 
respect  for  Chinese  rock.  As  for  being  unfair,  that  is 
the  last  thing  I  'd  be  willingly.  And  I  have  tried  to  look 
at  this  from  every  side.  A  man  likes  to  respect  con 
fidence  ;  with  a  priest  it  is  a  duty,  solemn  and  imperative. 
But  if  I  chose  to  blab,  I  have  not  one  concrete  fact  to 
state.  A  Chinese  woman,  I  will  not  tell  you  her  name 
— if  I  know  it — comes  to  me  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
getting  into  the  grounds  somehow  over  the  wall  or  up 
the  hill,  certainly  not  through  the  gate,  and  begs  me  to 
find  some  way  of  getting  Basil  Gregory's  people  out  of 
China.  She  urges  me  to  let  them  lose  no  time  in  search 
ing  for  him,  because  no  searching  will  find  him ;  and  they, 
she  insists,  are  in  danger  that  will  grow  deadlier  every 
hour  they  stay  on  here.  I  did  not  know  that  Basil  was 
missing  until  she  told  me;  it's  two  nights  ago.  I  had 
been  expecting  him  to  call — to  complete  some  talk  we'd 
begun " 

"About  a  girl?" 

' '  But  I  was  not  particularly  surprised  that  he  delayed 
keeping  an  appointment  that  was  not  very  definite. 
Basil  was  always  a  procrastinator.  The  woman  does  not 
know  where  he  is  or  what  has  happened  to  him.  Take 
that  from  me.  She  said  so,  and  she  was  speaking  the 
truth.  It  is  part  of  my  business  to  know  when  people 


152  MR.  WU 

are  telling  the  truth  and  when  they  are  lying  to  me.  She 
had  some  suspicion — what  it  was  I  have  no  idea,  or 
whether  it  was  right  or  wrong — but  she  would  tell  me 
nothing,  except  that  she  risked  her  life  to  warn  me  that  at 
all  costs  the  Gregorys  must  go  from  China,  and  go  now. ' ' 

"And  leave  poor  Mr.  Basil  to  his  fate?" 

Bradley  made  a  gesture  of  baffled  helplessness. 

The  clerk's  lip  curled.  "You  have  a  poor  idea  of  my 
intelligence.  I  know  it  all  now — all  that  you  know — • 
and  what  you  suspect." 

"Then  you  do  not  know  much,"  the  other  retorted 
hotly. 

"No,"  Holman  admitted  grimly.  "Not  much  to 
chew  on,  and  nothing  at  all  to  go  upon.  Ah  Wong  comes 
to  you  in  the  middle  of  the  night — it  was  Ah  Wong ;  she 
is  devoted  to  Mrs.  Gregory,  and  quite  indifferent  to  Mr. 
Basil,  dead  or  alive.  You  learn  from  her,  or  from 
some  one  else,  the  next  morning,  of  the  visit  three  days 
ago  to  Wu's  garden  at  Kowloon,  and  off  you  go  to  Kow- 
loon  to  dig  it  all  out.  You  said  you  went  to  Kowloon 
to  try  to  interest  your  friend  Wu  in  the  case,  because  he 
is  the  one  man  who  can  do  anything  that  can  be  done  in 
China.  Now,  you  did  not  go — excuse  me,  Mr.  Bradley — 
to  Kowloon  to  try  to  interest  Wu  in  the  case :  you  went 
to  find  Mr.  Basil." 

Bradley  threw  down  the  hat  he  had  taken  up  and  sat 
down  again.  "You  are  wrong  there,"  he  said.  "For  I 
too  believe  that  Basil  Gregory  will  not  be  found.  But 
I  did  go  to  try  to  interest  Wu  Li  Chang  in  what  is  very 
urgent  to  me — for — for  several  reasons — because  I  know 
him  to  be,  humanly  speaking,  almost  omnipotent,  and 
because  I  trust  and  like  him." 

"Trust  and  like  Wu  Li  Chang!" 

*' Emphatically,"  was  the  quiet  answer.    "I've  seen 


A  CONFERENCE  153 

a  great  deal  of  Mandarin  Wu  since  I  first  came  out. 
He's  a  gentleman,  and  every  inch  a  man.  There  is  no 
one  I  respect  more,  and  very,  very  few  of  my  own  race 
I  respect  as  much.  We  are  friends,  I  tell  you.  And  I 
think  he  likes  me.  I  went  to  beg  a  great  favor  of  him. ' ' 

"H'm!"  the  clerk  mused  aloud.  ''And  he  wouldn't 
see  you?" 

"And  I  couldn't  get  in.  I  have  never  been  refused 
'come  in  and  welcome'  at  Wu's  before,  and  I  must  have 
been  there  fifty  times.  But  I  couldn't  get  past  the  outer 
gate  yesterday.  The  mandarin  didn't  refuse  to  see  me; 
I  just  couldn't  get  in." 

"Much  the  same  thing " 

' '  Not  at  all !  I  was  met  at  the  gate  and  turned  away 
from  it  with  every  courtesy.  If  Wu  had  wished  to  avoid 
me,  I  might  still  have  been  made  free  of  the  grounds, 
as  I  have  been  a  dozen  times  when  he  has  been  away 
or  too  busy  to  chat.  But  I  was  driven — with  the  utmost 
politeness — from  the  gate.  Why?  Because  there  was 
something  in  there  I  was  not  to  see — I  believe,  Basil. 
And  if  Basil,  Basil  alive.  A  de#d  Englishman  would 
have  been  obliterated." 

"But  could  not  a  living  one  be  hidden  beyond  your 
suspicion,  even  by  so  astute  a  Chinaman  as  Wu  Li 
Chang?" 

The  clergyman  looked  puzzled.  "Yes — yes — un 
doubtedly,  most  probably,  but  such  men  as  Wu  take 
no  chance,  and  there  is  always  just  one  chance  that  any 
living  prisoner  may  make  himself  heard  or  seen.  But 
dead  men  tell  no  tales." 

Holman  shook  his  head.     He  was  unconvinced. 

And  Holman  was  right.  Wu  Li  Chang  would,  had 
he  chosen  to  do  so,  have  let  all  Anglo-Hong  Kong  stroll 
through  his  gardens^  and  have  kept  twenty  prisoners 


154 

there  undiscovered  at  the  same  time.  He  had  had 
Bradley  denied  entrance  at  his  gate  because  his  home 
was  the  home  of  mourning,  and  in  it  there  was  no  room 
or  welcome  for  any  Englishman,  except  the  one  grimly 
guarded  guest  in  the  pagoda  by  the  lake. 

"Well,"  Bradley  said,  rising  again,  "I  can  only 
repeat,  as  you  value  Basil's  life,  let  Mr.  Gregory  do 
nothing  to  rasp  "Wu  Li  Chang.  See  him,  I  must  and  will. 
But  it  will  have  to  be  at  his  convenience  and  consent, 
not  at  mine.  I  don't  know  why  I  should  hope  to  in 
fluence  him.  But  I  can  only  try."  He  picked  up  his 
hat,  and  continued  looking  at  the  girl  in  the  frame. 
"Wu  may  be  coaxed;  he  cannot  be  coerced.  There  is  no 
force  to  which  we  could  appeal,  even  if  we  had  anything 
to  go  upon,  and  we  have  nothing.  The  Tsungli  yamen 
itself,  at  Pekin,  could  neither  coerce  nor  punish  Wu  Li 
Chang  if  it  were  minded  to " 

"You  know  that  Mr.  Basil  was  seen  here  on  the 
island  after  they  had  all  returned  from  their  visit  to 
Wu's  daughter?" 

John  Bradley  waved  that  aside  contemptuously. 
"Rubbish!" 

"Precisely  what  I  think,"  Holman  acquiesced  tersely. 

At  the  door  the  priest  turned  to  say  earnestly,  "Re 
member,  Mr.  Gregory  must  do  nothing  to  annoy  Wu 
now — absolutely  nothing.  Basil's  very  life  may  depend 
on  that." 

"I'll  do  my  best,"  Holman  said,  none  too  confidently, 
rising  wearily  and  taking  a  step  towards  the  other. 

"And,  Holman,  not  one  word  about  Ah  Wong — that 
you  think  she  has  been  to  me.  It  would  serve  no  pur 
pose,  and  it  might  cause  her  trouble — so — I  expressly 
ask  you,  not  one  word." 


A  CONFERENCE  155 

"Not  one  word,  then,"  the  other  man  said,  taking 
Bradley 's  outheld  hand. 

And  they  parted  with  a  grip  long  and  strong.  They 
were  brother  Masons. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

SING  KUNG  YAH'S  FLOWERS 

HPHAT  afternoon  Florence  Gregory,  coming  in  with 
JL  Hilda  and  Ah  Wong  from  a  weary,  distracted 
searching — searching  here,  there,  everywhere — found  in 
her  sitting-room  such  a  basket  of  flowers  as  she  had  never 
seen  before,  and  a  red  Chinese  visiting  card,  three  inches 
wide  and  fully  eight  inches  long.  Ah  Wong  eyed  it  dis 
mayed,  and  at  her  lady's  command  translated  the  ideo 
graphic  characters  reluctantly.  "No  like,"  she  added. 
"Chlinese  lady  no  make  vlisit  so  way — Chlinese  lady  no 
have  vlisitling  clard  chit.  No  like." 

"But  who  is  Sing  Kung  Yah?"  Mrs.  Gregory  asked 
wearily,  not  interested  to  know,  except  that  any  straw 
might  prove  a  clew  to  the  only  thing  on  earth  that  mat 
tered  now,  and  so  must  be  clutched. 

"Lido  wuman,"  the  amah  said  contemptuously,  her 
fine,  acrid  Mongolian  disgust  in  no  way  softened  by  the 
unhappy  fact  that  she  herself  was  a  widow  also. 

"Whose  widow  is  she?"  Mrs.  Gregory  was  puzzled. 

"Not  know." 

1 '  Who  is  she  ?    Why  has  she  called  ? ' ' 

"Not  know — whly  she  dome — or  send  slweet  blos 
soms.  Not  know  if  she  clome  itself." 

"Find  out." 

"Madam,  can  do,"  the  woman  said,  running  off  on 
her  errand  reluctantly. 

"Did,"  she  reported  presently.  "Top-side  chair. 
Plenty  coolie." 

156 


SING  KUNG  YAH'S  FLOWERS  157 

"Who  is  she?" — the  English  voice  implied  that  the 
English  mistress  intended  to  be  answered  explicitly  this 
time. 

And  Ah  Wong  answered  desperately,  "Her  all  same 
klinsloman  Wu  Li  Chang.  Live  Kowloon  yamen.  Be 
mock  mother  lonorable  miss-child  we  dlink  tea." 

"Great  Scot!"  Hilda  exclaimed.  "Wbat  a  time  to 
choose  to  force  her  acquaintance  on  us — a  Chinawoman ! 
Even  they  must  have  heard  of  Basil's  disappearance, 
with  every  wall  and  corner  in  Hong  Kong  placarded  with 
his  description  and  his  picture." 

"Oh!  be  quiet,"  the  mother  told  her.  Florence  was 
thinking — thinking  hard. 

Ah  Wong  was  thinking  too,  and  on  the  Chinese  face, 
usually  so  inscrutable,  there  was  an  unmistakable  pinch 
of  anxiety,  and  her  dog-like,  devoted  eyes  were  growing 
haggard. 

"Take  them  away — where  Mr.  Gregory  will  not  see 
them.  But  take  care  of  them.  Let  the  hotel  servants 
see  that  we  are  treating  them  with  the  greatest  respect. 
Do  you  understand?" 

"Ah  Wong  understland, "  the  woman  said.  "Can 
do."  And  she  did  do;  but  she  only  just  could,  for  the 
great  gilded  bamboo  basket  of  flowers  was  so  heavy  and 
so  huge  that  she  could  scarcely  lift  it;  she  staggered  a 
little  as  she  carried  it  from  the  room. 

And  Basil  Gregory's  mother  went  on  thinking — on 
and  on. 

The  mandarin  Wu  was  said  to  be  the  most  powerful 
man  in  China — at  least  in  this  part  of  China.  Surely  he 
could  help  them  to  find  Basil.  And  he  was  a  kind  man 
— his  girl  had  said  so.  And  his  near  kinswoman — the 
aunt  who  had  been  on  a  visit  at  a  Taoist  nunnery  or 
something  when  they  were  in  Kowloon — had  called  and 


158  MR.  WU 

brought  a  garden  full  of  flowers.     That  call  should  be 
returned,    post-haste.     Perhaps    she    could    help,    the 
woman  who  had  left  the  flowers  and  the  absurd  red 
card ;  and  the  girl,  the  little  girl  who  had  given  them  tea, 
she  could  help,  too,  to  persuade  the  all-powerful  man 
darin,  if  it  needed  much  to  persuade  him ;  of  course  she 
could,  and  she  would ;  of  course  she  would — she  had  had 
the  kindest  eyes  and  a  soft,  girlish  mouth.     How  she,  his 
mother,  wished  that  Basil  might  have  shown  little  Miss 
Wu  just  a  little  more  attention-^not  too  much,  of  course ; 
that  might  have  alarmed  or  even  offended  a  Chinese  girl 
— you  never  could  tell  about  such  oddities;  but  if  only 
he'd  shown  a  little  less — yes — a  good  deal  less  cold  in 
difference — indifference  so  cold  that  it  had  been  almost  a 
rudeness — and  girls  felt  such  things,  and  resented  them 
too — even  Chinese  girls,  probably.     Of  course,  she,  his 
mother,  rejoiced  in  the  niceness  of  her  boy,  and  that  he 
was  not  as  other  young  Englishmen  were  in  China — 
some  of  them — but  manly  Aryan  self-respect  was  one 
thing,  and  an  almost  brutal  display  of  racial  superiority 
and    masculine    indifference    was    quite    another.     She 
wished,  indeed,  that  he  had  treated  the  only  child  of  the 
great  Wu  less  cavalierly,  for  his  manner  to  the  pretty 
Chinese  creature  had  been  very  cavalier — Chinese,  but  a 
girl  for  all  that.     Still,  his  fault  was  in  his  favor,  and  it 
was  no  part  of  a  mother's  office  to  forget  that.     Basil 
was  innately  and  intrinsically — and  she  believed  irradi- 
cately — nice.     Thank  God  for  it!    He  had  been  a  little 
wild  at  school — the  best  boys  always  were  (repeating  to 
herself  the  foolish  old  threadbare  paternal  fallacy) ;  a 
trifle  lax  at  Oxford  too — but,  her  son  and  always  nice! 
There  was  nothing  cavalier  about  the  way  in  which 
Ah  Wong  carried  her  fragrant  burden  through  the  hotel 
corridors.     Her  manner  to  the  honorable  flowers  grown 


SING  KUNG  YAH'S  FLOWERS  159 

in  the  garden  of  the  jade-like  mandarin,  and  gathered  by 
noble,  jeweled  hands,  was  conspicuously  obsequious. 

But  when  she  had  placed  them  in  a  cool,  dark  room, 
sacred  to  an  adjunct  of  her  lady's  toilet,  and  into  which 
Robert  Gregory  never  came,  nor  the  hotel  servants, 
her  manner  changed.  She  put  them  down  abruptly, 
fastened  the  doors  (there  were  two)  feverishly  and 
securely,  and  gestured  angrily  towards  the  gleaming 
golden  basket  of  bloom,  with  a  use  of  arms  and  fingers 
strangely  identical  with  the  motions  with  which  the 
Neapolitan  peasant  averts  the  evil  eye.  Then  she  ran 
one  matting-blind  up,  letting  such  breeze  as  there  was 
blow  across  the  flowers  and  out  of  the  room  through  the 
window. 

She  even  knelt  down  by  the  big  basket,  and  with  a 
guttural  groan  sniffed — not  at  the  blossoms,  but  at  the 
stems,  and  at  the  gilded  wicker-work.  But  if  there  was 
some  insidious  poison  hidden  in  the  gift,  to  kill  or  dis 
figure  whoever  smelt  or  touched,  Ah  Wong  could  not 
detect  it. 

But  how  could  she  ?  "Why  should  she  hope  to  pit  her 
wit  against  the  wit  of  Wu  ? 

Next,  the  woman  got  a  sharp  bamboo,  and,  kneeling 
down  again,  prodded  cautiously  but  thoroughly  among 
the  leaves  and  stems  and  the  depths  of  moss.  She 
trembled  as  she  worked,  for  she  was  prodding  for  some 
small  poison-snake  or  asp,  and  was  terribly  afraid;  but 
because  another  woman  had  treated  her  decently  for  a 
whole  year,  and  kindly  more  than  once,  she  worked  on 
until  convinced  that  nothing  that  crawled  or  stung  was 
hidden  in  the  glowing  gift. 

Then  she  unlocked  one  door  and  made  several  hurried 
journeys  into  the  adjacent  sleeping-room,  carrying  a 
small  tub,  a  spirit-lamp,  a  box,  a  manicure  set,  a  dozen 


160  MR.  WU 

sundries,  and  arranging  them  as  best  she  could,  first 
locking  the  dressing-room  door  from  the  bedroom  side 
and  hiding  the  key  in  her  bosom. 

The  flowers  seemed  innocent  enough,  but  Ah  Wong 
would  die  before  her  English  lady  should  touch  them  or 
inhale  their  breath. 

Ah  Wong  was  absurdly  wrong — if  devotion  can  ever 
be  absurd;  the  flowers  were  exactly  what  they  seemed. 
Wu  Li  Chang  was  no  crude  bungler.  When  he  un 
sheathed  his  knife  the  knife  would  cut,  but  it  would 
leave  no  trace  of  Wu. 

Of  the  tragedy  that  had  been  enacted  at  Kowloon 
Ah  Wong  knew  exactly  nothing;  but  she  suspected  al 
most  all,  and  the  details  of  her  suspicion  were  uncannily 
accurate.  She  was  Chinese. 


AH  WONG 

same  night,  at  midnight,  Tom  Carruthers  and 
A  Hilda  Gregory  sat  hand  in  hand  on  a  verandah  that 
looked  down  the  Peak  on  to  the  city  and  the  water 
beyond.  The  midnight  sky  was  thick  with  stars,  and 
up  and  down  the  Peak's  town-side  thin  snakes  of  light 
crept  now  and  then — the  lantern  lights  of  late-sojourn 
ing  natives,  or  of  those  pulling  and  pushing  the  rick 
shaws,  and  carrying  the  chairs  of  European  merry-mak 
ers  returning  to  the  Peak  to  sleep  in  its  comparative 
cool — a  party  that  had  dined  at  Government  House,  a 
dozen  who  had  made  moonlight  picnic  in  the  grounds  of 
Douglas'  Folly  or  at  Wong-ma-kok,  a  man  who  had 
worked  late  at  the  bank,  three  who  had  played  late  at 
the  club,  several  who  had  been  at  a  dance,  and  perhaps 
fifty  who  had  been  yawning  over  the  Richelieu  of  a  very 
scratch  Australian  company.  In  Hong  Kong — the  town 
itself — the  lights  were  still  many,  for  Hong  Kong  both 
works  and  revels  late  o'  nights,  and  on  the  nearer  water 
dimmer  lights  blinked  sleepily.  And  from  the  mast 
heads  of  many  a  ship  larger  lights  hung  bright  and  clear 
— red,  green,  blue,  orange.  There  were  half  a  dozen 
that  Carruthers  could  identify  as  theirs — lanterns  slung 
from  craft  of  the  Gregory  Steamship  Company — and  he 
pointed  them  out  to  Hilda. 

They  spoke  to  each  other  but  fitfully.  Each  was  try 
ing  to  think  of  some  worth-while  suggestion  to  make 
about  poor  Basil,  and  neither  could. 

161 


162  MR.  WU 

A  window  that  led  from  the  balcony  to  the  room  be 
yond  was  open,  and  Robert  Gregory  and  his  wife  were 
sitting  in  there,  not  silent  like  the  two  on  the  verandah, 
but  going  together  over  and  over  again  a  dozen  sorry 
theories  of  their  son's  disappearance,  a  dozen  feverish 
plans  for  his  rescue. 

The  island  and  the  mainland  beyond  had  been  well 
beaten  by  now.  All  the  Europeans,  the  Government 
House,  the  Civil  Service,  residents,  officials  big  and  small, 
had  tried  to  help  in  the  search.  For  Robert  Gregory 
was  a  power  in  Hong  Kong,  and  Mrs.  Gregory  was  well 
liked.  And  many  of  the  natives  were  trying,  too,  to  help 
in  the  search,  or  seemed  to  be. 

In  the  Company's  offices  on  the  bund,  a  light  still 
burned  in  the  manager's  room,  and  Holman  and  William 
Simpson  sat  there  in  earnest,  anxious  conclave. 

"Nothing  could  look  much  blacker,"  Simpson  was 
saying. 

"Nothing." 

"The  bottom  seems  about  out!" 

Holman  nodded  grimly. 

And  indeed  the  affairs  of  the  great  Company  seemed 
desperate,  and  all  in  the  last  few  weeks,  chiefly  in  the  last 
few  days!  Strike  had  followed  strike  among  the  dock 
hands,  inexcusably,  inexplicably.  Demands  for  in 
creased  wages,  made  when  some  important  contract,  al 
ready  overdelayed,  must  be  fulfilled  quickly,  or  lost,  were 
scarcely  acceded  to  when  they  were  renewed.  It  looked 
as  if  their  hands  were  determined  to  ruin  and  shut  down 
the  Company  by  which  they  all  lived  and  that  had 
treated  and  paid  them  well  for  years.  It  was  one  of 
Robert  Gregory's  boasts  that  he  believed  in  keeping  his 
tools  bright  and  his  machinery  well  oiled.  The  Fee 
Chow  must  not  miss  the  next  morning 's  tide,  and  yet  her 


AH  WONG  163 

loading  had  been  hindered  and  bungled  consistently. 
A  dozen  mishaps  and  a  dozen  odd  financial  backsets  had 
followed  each  other,  and  it  looked  as  if  disaster  had  come 
to  the  Gregory  Steamship  Company,  and  come  to  stay. 
Too  anxious  for  the  house  they  had  served  long  and 
staunchly  to  rest,  and  anxious  for  their  own  salt  too, 
the  two  men  had  returned  after  office  hours  to  talk  it 
over — to  find  a  way  out,  if  they  could. 

And  the  deeper  they  went  into  their  canvass  of  affairs, 
the  more  difficult  and  bad  it  all  seemed.  And  certainly 
the  strange  disappearance  of  young  Gregory  was  far  and 
away  the  worst  feature  of  the  entire  complication.  The 
Gregory  purse  was  long,  the  Gregory  credit  enormous; 
both  would  stand  a  great  deal  of  strain.  But  the  ac 
cident  (or  whatever  it  was)  to  his  boy  was  beginning  to 
tell  upon  the  father — that  had  been  evident  all  day ;  and 
when  Robert  Gregory's  nerve  went,  the  greatest  asset 
of  the  firm  went. 

And  for  this  reason,  rather  than  for  any  keen  feeling 
for  the  young  man  who  had  shown  but  little  for  the 
business  at  which  they  toiled  loyally  early  and  late, 
while  he  neglected  it  or  played  at  it  flippantly,  and  from 
Which,  as  a  rule,  he  drew  in  a  day  rather  more  in  the  way 
of  cash  than  they  together  did  in  a  week,  it  was  of  his 
disappearance  and  of  the  chance  of  his  return  that  they 
spoke  and  planned,  much  more  than  of  the  ledger  that 
lay  between  them,  or  the  more  immediate  affairs  of  the 
office. 

And  while  the  six — two  here,  four  in  the  hotel  on 
the  Peak — were  trying  to  think  and  to  contrive,  two 
others,  but  quite  separately,  were  doing  something  more 
active. 

John  Bradley,  just  at  midnight,  came  out  of  a  tiny 
house  in  Po  Yan  Street,  not  far  from  the  Tung  Wall 


164  MR.  WU 

Hospital,  in  the  heart  of  Tai-pingshan,  the  poorest  part 
of  the  Chinese  quarter — a  malodorous  hovel  in  which 
a  native  miscreant,  whom  Bradley  had  befriended  more 
than  once,  and  whom,  rightly  or  wrongly,  the  clergyman 
thought  he  could  trust,  lived.  Sung  Fo  would  have  come 
to  the  Englishman  on  receipt  of  a  message,  but  Bradley 
had  thought  it  best  to  manage  otherwise.  And  he  feared 
nothing  in  Hong  Kong,  and  indeed  had  nothing  to  fear, 
not  even  here  in  its  worst  quarter  of  slime  and  dirt  and 
worse,  tucked  away  behind  the  cobblers'  lanes. 

He  had  found  Sung  Fo  at  home,  and  had  made  the 
bargain  he  had  come  to  make.  Sung  Fo  had  promised  to 
"look-see"  and  "try-find,"  and  for  the  rest  Bradley 
thought  he  could  do  nothing  but  wait  and  watch  and 
pray. 

Like  Ah  Wong,  he  knew  nothing  but  suspected  every 
thing,  but  with  much  less  accuracy  than  she. 

Unlike  Ah  Wong,  all  John  Bradley 's  sympathies  were 
with  Wu  Li  Chang. 

He  would  do  anything  that  a  man  might  do  to  find 
Basil  Gregory. 

He  would  do  anything  that  a  man  might  to  avoid 
injuring  Wu  Li  Chang. 

And  to  spare  Wu  he  would  have  gone  even  a  little 
farther  than  he  was  prepared  to  go  for  Basil's  sake,  had 
not  Basil  been  Hilda's  brother. 

But  if  his  sympathy  was  all  Wu  Li  Chang's,  his 
anxiety  was  not.  He  had  a  firm  conviction  that  nothing 
he  could  do,  by  purpose  or  by  accident,  could  harm  or 
imperil  Wu  Li  Chang. 

When  he  had  been  walking  away  from  Sung's — per 
haps  for  ten  minutes — picking  his  way  over  garbage 
heaps  and  broken  side-paths,  he  paused  to  look  curiously 
at  a  house  of  which  he  had  heard  a  great  deal  but  had 


AH  WONG  165 

never  entered — a  well-kept  brick  edifice,  taller  and  better 
built  than  many  houses  in  that  quarter,  painted  a  dull 
light  blue,  and  owned  and  inhabited  by  a  Chinese  apoth 
ecary  who  was  infamously  famous  throughout  the  Em 
pire. 

It  looked  an  innocent  house,  clean  and  law-abiding. 
It  was  lightless,  and  each  of  its  shutters  was  tightly 
closed;  but  at  midnight — a  quarter-past  midnight  now 
— that  it  was  darkened  and  closed  but  added  to  its  air  of 
trim  respectability.  And  yet,  to  this  quiet  blue  house 
half  the  poisoning  crimes  in  China  were  attributed  by 
the  native  and  the  European  authorities  alike — at 
tributed,  but  not  one  ever  traced. 

The  authorities  had  raided  the  place  again  and  again, 
but  always  uselessly.  Nothing  incriminating  was  ever 
found — nothing  but  the  ordinary  wares  of  a  well-stocked 
apothecary:  glass  bowls  of  Korean  ginseng-plant  roots 
(one,  five  inches  long,  was  worth  ten  pounds,  and  a  little 
of  its  dust  would  give  vigor  to  the  old,  hair  to  the  bald), 
skins  of  black  cats  and  dogs  (stewed,  they  prevent  dis 
ease,  and  are  the  best  hot-weather  diet),  musk,  rhubarb 
and  silk-covered  packets  of  dragons'  blood  (invaluable 
medicinally,  but  not  what  it  sounds — a  dry  resinous 
powder  scraped  from  Sumatra  rattan),  cups  of  rhinoce 
ros'  horn,  skins  and  horns  ground  into  powdered  doses, 
antidotes  to  poison,  or  guaranteed  to  impart  the  quali 
ties  of  the  animal  which  it  had  protected  or  adorned. 
Horns  of  cornigerous  animals  hung  in  tidy  rows,  and 
formed  a  conspicuous  part  of  the  stock-in-trade,  for  they 
give  the  human  partaker  strength  and  courage,  still  silly 
nerves,  quell  fearfulness.  A  pyramid  of  the  hoofs  of 
young  deer,  specific  to  inculcate  fleet  gait,  half -screened 
the  chief  treasure  of  the  place:  a  lacquer  cabinet  of 
hearts.  There  were  three  hearts,  each  in  its  own  well- 


166  MR.  WU 

sealed  jar:  a  lion's  heart,  and  two  that  were  human — a 
pirate's  and  a  young  girl's.  The  criminal's  was  pre 
served  in  alcohol,  the  maiden's  in  honey;  and  each  was 
of  fabulous  value.  There  was  no  secret  about  their  be 
ing  here.  They  had  been  honorably  bought:  one  from 
the  criminal  himself  just  as  he  bent  down  smilingly  on 
the  Kowloon  execution  ground,  the  other  from  a  widowed 
grandmother  who  was  a  holy  woman  and  very  poor. 
The  girl  had  been  very  lovely,  and  some  rich  man  would 
buy  her  heart  one  day,  no  doubt,  to  enhance  the  marriage 
chances  of  a  plain  but  favorite  daughter.  The  pirate 
had  been  a  monster  of  ferocity,  and  to  eat  his  heart 
would  be  to  become  forever  brave.  Chinese  warriort 
have  eaten  the  hearts  of  their  bravest  foes.  They  can 
pay  no  greater  compliment,  none  more  sincere.  Two 
alabaster  boxes  were  stowed  carefully  beneath  the 
counter:  one  held  charms;  the  other  held  smaller  boxes 
of  p'ingan  tan  (pills  of  peace  and  tranquillity),  the 
choicest  drug  in  China.  Tze-Shi  sent  boxes  of  p'ingan 
tan  to  troops  sorely  pressed  or  whom  she  wished  greatly 
to  reward.  There  were  ointments  here  made  from  the 
gums  of  trees  that  surrounded  the  tomb  of  Confucius, 
and  precious  medicines  brewed  or  pounded  beside  the 
Elephant 's  Pool,  where  Pusien  washed  his  elephant  after 
crossing  the  great  mountain  from  the  west;  some  in 
Pootoo,  the  sacred  isle  of  Nan  Hai,  and  still  others  in  a 
garden  that  Marco  Polo  knew.  There  were  simples  here 
that  would  cure  women  of  vanity,  and  one  (but  this  the 
apothecary  would  by  no  means  guarantee)  that  healed 
them  from  overtalkativeness.  But  all  this  was  as  it 
should  be,  and  the  police  had  never  been  able  to  find 
here  anything  nefarious  or  even  objectionable. 

Something  about  the  building  fascinated  Bradley — 
probably  the  contrast  between  its  docile  and  pleasant 


AH  WONG  167 

seeming  and  its  sinister  reputation — and  he  stood  some 
time  gazing  at  it,  scrutinizing  each  closely  shuttered 
window — there  was  not  a  balcony ;  it  was  unique  in  that 
— and  the  tight-shut  door  with  the  apothecary  sign  hang 
ing  from  the  lintel. 

"It  looks  a  peaceful  place,  innocently  asleep  after 
a  day  of  honest  industry, ' '  he  said  to  himself ;  and  then 
some  old  words  that  were  great  favorites  of  his,  from  a 
book  he  never  tired  of  reading,  came  to  his  memory, 
and  he  bespoke  them  aloud  softly  to  the  star-emblazoned 
Chinese  night :  ' '  He  it  is  who  ordaineth  the  night  as  a 
garment,  and  sleep  for  rest,  and  ordaineth  the  day  for 
waking  up  to  life." 

But  the  apothecary's  house  was  not  quite  asleep.  A 
thin  line  of  light  trickled  out  from  below  the  door,  and 
then  the  door  opened  narrowly  and  a  woman,  shrouded 
from  crown  to  shoe  in  humble  blue,  came  into  the 
street. 

Hie  did  not  see  her  face,  although,  as  by  law  obliged, 
she  carried  a  lantern,  but  she  saw  his,  clear-cut  in  the 
white  moonlight,  a  late,  just-rising  moon,  and  for  an 
instant  she  turned  as  if  to  speak  to  him ;  but  she  thought 
better  of  it,  and  walked  quietly  but  quickly  away. 

Bradley  wondered  who  she  was — up  to  no  special 
harm,  he  hoped.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  her  gait 
was  familiar,  at  least  not  individually  so — thousands  of 
amahs  walk  so.  But  he  noticed  that  her  coarse  blue 
clothes  looked  very  clean — as  clean  and  as  blue  as  the 
blue  house  of  Yat  Jung  How. 

He  went  home  then,  and  Ah  Wong  went  too,  back  to 
the  hotel,  slipping  out  of  the  Chinese  quarter  stealthily, 
but  going  along  the  Praya  unconcernedly  and  through 
Queen's  Road  and  Ice  House  Street,  and  up  the  long 
climb  to  the  Peak,  and  past  the  night  watchman  at  the 


168  MR.  WU 

hotel  door.  She  had  a  night-police  pass;  and  her  mis 
tress  had  given  her  leave  to  spend  the  evening  on  some 
errand  of  her  own. 

It's  a  long  climb  up  Hong  Kong  Peak.  Ah  Wong 
was  very  strong,  but  her  indefatigable  little  feet  ached 
when  she  slipped  into  the  room  where  she  had  locked  the 
flowers  almost  twelve  hours  ago,  and  day  was  slipping 
rosy  up  the  sky. 

Day  was  coming,  but  she  did  not  lift  a  blind.  She 
lit  a  candle.  And  when  she  had  laid  off  the  long  blue 
cloth  in  which  she  had  veiled  herself,  closely  in  the 
Chinese  quarter,  carelessly  in  English-town,  she  took 
from  her  dress  the  spoil  of  her  visit  to  Yat  Jung  How's 
blue  house:  three  bottles. 

The  smallest  of  the  three  was  filled  (it  was  very  small) 
with  a  few  drops  of  opalescent  green  liquid.  Ah  Wong 
studied  it  grimly  awhile,  and  then  she  knotted  the  phial 
in  some  corner  of  her  garments,  and  tucked  it  securely 
back  inside  her  dress. 

The  second  bottle  held  about  a  dram  of  something 
that  smelt  disagreeably  when  she  uncorked  it;  but  she 
kept  it  well  away  from  her  own  face  and  nose,  and  turned 
it  instantly  into  the  moss  in  the  basket.  It  was  deadly 
poison  this,  and  would  destroy  any  reptile  or  scorpion 
thing  that  came  within  a  yard  of  it,  and  so  potent  was  it 
that  being  near  it  would  render  any  other  poison  quite 
innocuous — Yat  had  told  her  so.  And  she  trusted  Yat 
Jung  How.  She  had  known  a  way  to  make  him  trust 
worthy. 

The  third  bottle  was  a  generous,  roomy  receptacle, 
squat  but  wide.  It  held  nearly  a  pint.  And  this  was 
disinfectant,  warranted  to  purify  a  poisoned  room,  and 
smelt  of  an  acceptable  cool  pungence  as  Ah  Wong  threw 


AH  WONG  169 

/ 

it  lavishly  about  the  room,  until  she  had  spilled  the  last 
drop. 

Then  she  lit  several  handfuls  of  joss-sticks  and  pulled 
up  the  blinds.  But  she  did  not  unlock  the  doors,  or 
leave  one  unlocked  when  at  last  she  left  the  room,  to  sit 
outside  it  till  her  lady  called.  She  intended  that  no  one 
but  she  should  pass  into  that  room  until  the  Kowloon 
flowers  were  all  dead,  and  she  had  won  Mrs.  Gregory's 
permission  to  burn  them  herself,  basket  and  all. 

The  sweet  pungence  of  the  joss-sticks  came  to  her 
from  under  the  door.  From  under  the  room's  other  door 
no  doubt  it  was  filling  her  mistress 's  chamber  with  thick 
sweetness— but  that  was  well,  for  the  English  lady  loved 
the  smell.  Mr.  Gregory  did  not  especially.  Quite  pos 
sibly  he  might  swear  a  little  in  his  sleep.  But  he  often 
swore  in  his  sleep.  Ah  Wong  had  heard  him. 

She  leaned  back  her  head  against  the  cool  corridor 
wall,  anxious  and  tired,  but  well  content  with  her  night's 
work. 

And  she  had  left  her  three  jade  bangles  (and  they 
were  good)  and  her  seven  silver  ones  and  her  stick-pin 
of  seed  pearls  and  coral  with  Yat  Jung  How.  And 
almost  she  had  pawned  her  soul  to  him,  and  had  quite 
pawned  all  she  would  earn  for  years. 

Heathen  Chinee! 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
IN  THE  CLUTCH  OF  THE  TONGS 

THE  next  day  there  was  still  no  word  of  Basil,  and  at 
the    Steamship    Company's    hong   the   tangle   was 
steadily  tightening. 

Holman  sat  glowering  at  a  telegram  he  was  reading 
for  the  third  or  fourth  time,  but  looked  up  impatiently 
as  a  Chinese  clerk  came  in  and  stood  waiting  to  speak. 

"What  now?" 

' '  Coolie  men  talkee  muchee.  No  plenty  money,  no  can 
do  plenty  work. ' ' 

"Fetch  the  compradore  here,"  Holman  snapped, 
thrusting  the  telegram  into  his  waistcoat. 

"Can  do,"  the  clerk  said,  and  went  out. 

Tom  Carruthers  stood  by  the  window,  doing  nothing 
in  particular,  but  watching  with  a  rueful,  puzzled  face 
the  seething,  jabbering  coolies  outside.  He  swung  round 
as  the  clerk  went.  ' '  I  say,  Holman,  what  is  all  this  ?  A 
third  demand  to-day  for  more  wages!" 

Holman  pushed  a  ledger  aside  abruptly.  "That's 
what  I  am  trying  to  find  out,  young  man,"  he  said — 
"just  exactly  what  it  all  means." 

The  compradore  came  in  a  moment — a  middle-aged 
Chinese,  as  capable  looking  in  his  way  as  Holman  was 
in  his.  He  stood  waiting  stolidly  for  the  manager  to 
speak,  but  Holman  delayed  a  little,  measuring  the 
Mongol  with  his  shrewd  blue  eyes  before  he  said :  "Look 
here,  compradore,  what  the  devil  is  the  matter  with  your 
coolies  now?  Why  have  they  struck  work  again,  and 

170 


IN  THE  CLUTCH  OF  THE  TONGS         171 

why  the  blue  blazes  have  you  let  them,  when  you  know 
how  late  we  're  with  the  loading  of  the  Fee  Chow  alreacty, 
that  she'll  miss  the  tide  if  there's  more  delay,  and  that 
she  must  not  miss  the  tide?  Eh?" 

"Coolie  men  talkee  muchee" — the  compradore  said 
it  sadly.  "They  talkee  stlikee." 

"Strike!"  Tom  Carruthers  cried.  "Strike!  That's 
the  limit!  A  strike  halfway  through  loading.  You 
damn  well  tell  them " 

But  Holman  interrupted  sharply,  "Hush,  Mr.  Car 
ruthers,  please.  Leave  this  to  me.  Now,  compradore, 
what 's  the  grievance  ?  Come,  out  with  it,  ehop,  chop ! ' ' 

"Coolie,  man  likee  work,"  the  compradore  replied 
gently,  "no  likee  money.  No  plenty  money,  no  can 
catchee  plenty  Chow-chow.  They  talkee  me  they  wantee 
more  money." 

"All  right,  then "  Holman  began  crisply. 

"What?"  Carruthers  broke  in  excitedly.  Holman 
paid  no  attention  to  that,  but  continued  to  the  Chinese, 
"Tell  them  double  pay  if  she's  loaded  up  to  time." 

"Can  do,"  the  other  answered,  and  went  slowly  out. 

"Well,  I'm  bio  wed!"  Tom  gasped. 

Holman  went  wearily  to  the  window,  and  stood 
watching  moodily  the  human  yellow  kaleidoscope.  The 
compradore  was  among  them  now,  and  gradually  the 
trouble  cooled  and  slacked,  and  the  men  began  to  slouch 
off  to  work,  but  reluctantly,  the  manager  thought. 
Things  looked  ugly  to  him — very  ugly. 

"I  say,  Holman,"  Carruthers  persisted  impatiently, 
"isn't  that  playing  rather  into  those  chaps'  hands?" 

Holman  was  furious — he  had  been  furious  for  days 
now — and  he  welcomed  some  human  thing  upon  which 
he  dared  to  vent  his  rage.  He  was  "about  fed  up" 
with  the  frets  and  troubles  of  the  last  week.  He  fixed 


172  MR.  WU 

Tom  Carruthers  with  a  vindictive  eye.  "See  here,  Mr. 
Carruthers,"  he  spat  out,  "if  I  have  any  further  inter 
ference  I'll  resign  instantly — understand?  I  managed 
this  branch  for  years,  until  the  governor  took  a  notion 
to  come  out.  Well — he's  a  genius  at  business,  and  I'm 
proud  to  take  my  orders  from  him.  But  somehow,  the 
very  devil's  in  it  these  last  two  weeks,  and  we're  up 
against  a  bigger  proposition  than  you — or  the  governor 
either — have  any  idea  of.  I'm  doing  my  best  to  cope 
with  it,  and,  by  heaven " 

"Sorry  to  upset  you,  old  chap,"  the  other  interrupted 
regretfully,  "but,  believe  me,  this  succession  of  disasters 
has  just  about  whacked  me." 

"Oh!  all  right,"  the  older  man  said,  relieved  by  his 
own  explosion,  and  easily  mollified  after  having  let  slip 
the  snappy  little  dogs  of  his  badly  over-tried  temper, 
"I  haven't  the  heart  to  show  this  to  Mr.  Gregory,"  he 
said,  taking  the  wire  from  his  pocket  into  which  he  had 
thrust  it,  "damned  if  I  have."  He  spread  the  flimsy 
paper  out  on  the  desk,  and  sent  Tom  a  glance  that  was 
an  invitation.  He  wanted  sympathy,  even  that  of  the 
"somebody's  son  sent  out  to  learn  the  business,"  as  he 
contemptuously  said  of  Carruthers  when  he  did  not  call 
him  "a  flannelled  fool."  The  latter  gibe  was  not  quite 
fair.  Tom  usually  wore  ducks,  as  Holman  himself  did — 
you  had  to  in  Hong  Kong — and  though  the  younger  man 
did  squander  (if  it  were  squandering)  a  good  deal  of 
time  with  Hilda  Gregory,  he  only  gave  a  reasonable, 
wholesome  amount  to  rackets,  cricket,  and  Happy  Valley 
racecourse. 

"On  top  of  all  else,"  Holman  continued,  "look  here!" 

Tom  came  and  stood  at  Holman 's  chair,  and  read 
over  his  shoulder.  "Good  God,  Holman!"  he  cried, 
"the  Feima  sent  to  the  bottom!" 


IN  THE  CLUTCH  OF  THE  TONGS         173 

"The  biggest  and  finest  ship  in  our  fleet,"  the  other 
said  bitterly.  "Mutiny  of  the  coolies — they  scuttle  the 
ship  and  bolt  with  the  boats  two  days  out ! ' ' 

"This  will  about  kill  him!" 

Holman  nodded.  "And  look  here" — he  struck  the 
ledger  near  him  with  an  angry  fist — ' '  I  say,  do  you  know 
anything  about  safes  ? ' ' 

"Not  much." 

"Well,  ours  is  the  finest  made.  And  the  one  make 
that  is  'safe.'  There  probably  aren't  a  dozen  artists 
that  could  pick  it — all  told,  Sing  Sing,  Portland,  Joliet 
— that  could  pick  it  in  a  week.  "Well,  look  here;  this 
ledger  was  taken  from  the  safe — I  suppose  one  night  a 
week  or  more  ago — the  page  referring  to  the  dock  nego 
tiation  torn  out — and  so  prettily  you  can't  see  that  it 
was  ever  in,  except  for  the  missing  number — and  the 
ledger  returned  to  its  place  and  the  safe  relocked  without 
so  much  as  a  scratch  being  left  to  show  how  it  was 
done." 

"No  wonder  we  were  outbid  for  the  site — somebody 
knew  our  price ! ' ' 

"Knew  our  price !" — he  closed  the  ledger  with  a  bang, 
and  slapped  it.  "Why,  damn  it,  man,  somebody's  got 
us  tied  in  a  knot,  and  it's  being  drawn  tighter  every 
day — every  hour." 

"It's  beyond  me,  Holman!" 

Holman  rose  and  laid  his  hands  on  Tom  Carruthers' 
shoulders.  "Mr.  Carruthers,  you  don't  for  one  moment 
believe  this  awful — simply  awful — sequence  of  disasters 
to  be  due  to  accident,  do  you?  Sunken  ships,  docks 
burnt  to  the  water's  edge,  strikes  on  shore,  mutinies 
afloat,  and — and  above  all — the  disappearance  of  Mr. 
Basil?" 

' '  I  don 't  know  what  to  believe — I  simply  don 't.    What 


174  MR.  WU 

does  it  all  mean,  Holman  ?    I  say  it  looks  like  some  curse, 
don't  you  know,  come  home  to  roost!" 

"You  are  in  the  confidence,  quite  outside  of  business, 
of  Mr.  Gregory,"  the  manager  said,  sitting  down  again 
heavily — "of  Mr.  Gregory  and  his  family.     I  want  to  ask 
you  a  straight  question. ' ' 
"Yes?" 

"Do  you  know  of  any  one  thing,  however  slight,  that 
Mr.  Gregory  may  have  done  to  upset  Wu  Li  Chang  ? ' ' 
"WuLi  Chang?" 

"Yes,  or  'Mr.  Wu,'  as  he's  mostly  called  by  the  Euro 
peans.  ' ' 

"No,"  Tom  said  decidedly,  seating  himself  on  the 
table — that  was  one  of  his  ways  that  ruffled  Holman — 
"no,  absolutely  no.  "Why,  only  the  other  day — Thurs 
day,  wasn't  it? — we  visited  at  his  place — it  was  there, 
you  know,  that  the  last  was  seen  of  Basil,  except  for  his 
having  been  seen  here,  on  the  island,  with  two  other 
Europeans  later  that  same  evening." 

Holman  smiled  sourly.     "Who  saw  him?" 
"Why,  those  Chinese  johnnies  who  brought  the  in 
formation  to  Government  House." 

Holman    grunted.     "Volunteered    the    information, 
didn't  they?    Went  direct  to  the  Governor  instead  of 
lodging  information  with  the  police  in  the  usual  way?" 
"Yes." 

"Basil  Gregory  was  no  more  seen  by  those  Chinamen 
than  I  possess  the  Koh-i-noor." 
"What?"  Carruthers  stood  up  in  his  surprise. 
"Take  it  from  me,"  the  other  said  emphatically,  "in 
some  manner  Mr.  Gregory  has  stung  Wu  Li  Chang,  and, 
by  Jove,  that  wound  will  want  some  healing. ' ' 

Tom  Carruthers  was  hopelessly  puzzled.     "Well,"  he 


IN  THE  CLUTCH  OF  THE  TONGS         175 

said  slowly,  "just  who  is  this  chap,  Wu  Li  Chang?  And 
what's  his  strength?" 

"I've  been  here  for  twenty  years,"  Holman  told  him, 
"and  in  all  that  time  there's  been  just  one  man  I've  made 
it  a  point  to  steer  clear  of,  in  business  and  out  of  it — • 
a  strong  personality,  possessed  of  unlimited  wealth, 
mixed  up  in  every  big  deal  in  Hong  Kong,  swaying  a 
sinister  power  that  we  Europeans  cannot  understand. 
Mr.  Wu  is  hardly  the  man  to  cross  swords  with.  No 
European  can  afford  to ;  and  there 's  only  one  of  his  own 
race  who  ever  got  the  better  of  him,  and  that  was  only 
momentary,  for  he  was  never  seen  again." 

"You  mean " 

"The  inevitable  where  Wu  is  concerned!" 

"But  how  on  earth,"  Carruthers  said,  "could  Mr. 
Gregory  have  offended  such  a  man  ? ' ' 

Holman  gestured  his  inability  to  answer  that,  but 
persisted,  ' '  There 's  no  doubt  about  it.  To  you  all  China 
men  look  alike,  but  they  don't  to  me.  And  I've  seen 
men,  whom  I  know  to  be  in  "Wu's  employ,  mixing  with 
our  coolies  for  days  now.  There  are  two  of  them  down 
there  now — to  my  knowledge — and  probably  more.  And 
I  know  for  a  fact  that  several  such  shipped  in  the 
Feima;  every  man  jack  of  'em  is  a  Highbinder — member 
of  one  or  other  of  the  rival  tongs." 

"Tongs?"  Tom  queried.  "That  means  secret  socie 
ties,  doesn't  it?" 

"You  bet  your  life  it  does:  secret  societies  that  are 
secret,  guilds  that  are  a  monster-power — the  greatest 
power  in  China,  the  only  power  that  Tze-Shi  is  afraid  of. 
There  are  two  or  three  in  every  province — a  heap  more  in 
some.  And  our  friend  Wu  is  Past  Master  of  the  whole 
tally  lot  of  'em.  Most  of  the  mandarins  hate  the  tongs, 


i?6  MR.  WU 

and  are  in  deadly  fear  of  them.  But  Wu  knows  a  game 
worth  ten  of  that:  he  handles  them — the  'White  Lily' 
(about  the  dirtiest  of  them  all),  the  Triad  (that  bunch 
made  the  T'aiping  Rebellion),  the  Shangti  Hui  (the 
Association  of  the  Almighty,  if  you  please),  and  that 
prize  band  of  villains,  the  Hunsing  Tzu,  and  the  devil 
knows  how  many  more.  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Carruthers, 
we've  got  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  this  thing,  and  get  there 
quick,  or  there  won't  be  a  stick  left  in  China  belonging 
to  the  Company,  or  a  vessel  on  the  high  seas  flying  its 
flag." 

"Well,  old  chap,"  the  junior  said  cheerfully,  "Mr. 
Gregory  is  no  schoolboy.  He'll  give  this  cursed  gentle 
man  of  tongs  and  mystery  a  run  for  his  money — a 
damned  fine  run — I  '11  have  a  bet  with  you,  any  odds  you 
like — and  we'll  have  a  damned  lot  of  fun  watching  him 
do  it.  But,  I  say,  we  don't  know  that  you  are  barking 
up  the  right  tree;  but  if  you  are — and  admitting  for 
argument 's  sake  that  Mr.  Gregory  has  offended  this  top- 
dog  Chink  or  whatever  he  is — I  say,  why  the  deuce 
should  Lord  High  Pigtail  want  to  take  it  out  of  Basil  ? ' ' 

Holman — his  mother  had  been  a  Scotchwoman — had 
a  tingling  suspicion  why,  but  he  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  evaded,  saying  didactically,  "When  you've  been  in 
China  as  long  as  I  have,  you'll  know  as  much  about  their 
ways  and  their  motives  as  I  do,  and  that's — nothing!" 


CHAPTER  XXV 

WORSE  AND  WORSE 

THE  hot  day  burned  on  towards  its  hottest,  and  the 
troubles  at  the  Gregory  Steamship  Company  boiled 
and  bubbled  like  a  veritable  hell-broth. 

At  eleven  a  coolie  was  caught  smuggling  paraffin, 
disguised  as  a  chest  of  tea,  on  to  the  Fee  Chow.  Not  a 
word  could  be  got  out  of  him  as  to  what  or  who  had 
instigated  him;  neither  threats  nor  bribes  would  make 
him  speak,  and  indeed  Holman  had  little  time  or  nerve 
to  spare  to  try  the  application  of  either  coaxing  or 
kicking.  He  knew  that  he  needed  all  he  had  of  both 
to  save  what  was  undoubtedly  the  ugliest  situation  he 
had  ever  faced.  The  tide  must  be  caught  at  Shanghai: 
it  was  vital.  And  yet  the  ship  must  be  searched,  every 
inch  of  her — and  the  crew.  That  was  even  more  impera 
tive.  One  tin  of  the  deadly,  dangerous  stuff  had  been 
detected  going  aboard — a  dozen  might  be  aboard  un 
detected,  hidden  among  the  cargo. 

It  was  terribly  exasperating;  but  now  that  things 
were  at  their  worst  Holman  faced  them  coolly  enough, 
a  resolute,  resourceful  man — strong,  crisp  and  vigorous 
still  after  twenty  years  of  seething  Hong  Kong  business 
life.  For  several  of  those  years  he  had,  until  Robert 
Gregory's  arrival,  managed  the  firm's  affairs  efficiently. 
He  looked  capable  of  doing  so  still  for  quite  a  number 
of  years. 

He  gripped  the  situation  hard,   and  dealt  with  it 

177 


1 78  MR.  WU 

briskly,  and  Tom  Carnithers  looked  on  fuming,  and 
Simpson  and  the  other  half-dozen  European  subordinate 
old  hands  obeyed  him  with  confident  alacrity.  Carru- 
thers  would  have  "wrung  every  dirty  yellow  neck," 
"kicked  them  to  blazes,"  "boiled  them  in  their  own 
paraffin";  but  Simpson  and  the  English  others  thought 
that  old  Holman  would  win  through  somehow — if  he 
couldn  't,  no  one  could — and  they  were  serenely  confident 
that  every  troubling  coolie  there  would  get  his  drastic 
deserts  to  the  full — when  Holman  thought  wise  and  had 
time,  but  not  before. 

But  just  once  Holman  forgot  himself.  When  the 
searching  was  over  (sure  enough  one  tin  had  been  suc 
cessfully  smuggled  on  and  hidden)  and  the  reloading 
half  done,  the  coolies  struck  again.  And  the  over-tired 
manager  felt  with  Tom  that  that  was  too  much. 

Tom  was  nearly  maudlin  with  rage  by  now,  and  when, 
in  Jeply  to  Holman 's  angry,  "The  men  never  behaved 
so  tfke  ftell  before.  What  the  thunder  does  it  mean?" 
the  compradore  had  said  oilily,  "Me  no  savee — no 
catchee  more  money — no  can  do  work,"  Holman  lost 
grip  on  himself  and  blurted  out  thunderously,  "They 
work  damn  well  for  Wu  Li  Chang,  don't  they?"  and 
regretted  it  as  soon  as  he  had  said  it. 

Murder  flashed  through  the  compradore 's  eyes  for 
an  infinitesimal  instant,  and  a  venomous  hiss  snarled 
through  his  teeth.  Holman  had  heard  and  seen  a  rabid 
dog  snarl  so  once.  But  the  Chinese  commanded  himself 
again  instantly,  and  said  meekly,  almost  sweetly:  "Me 
no  savee.  Wantee  more  money,  lelse  no  can  do  work. ' ' 

Holman  commanded  himself  as  quickly  and  as  well 
as  the  native  had,  and  said,  speaking  as  calmly  (and 
almost  as  slowly),  "Get  that  ship  loaded — three  days' 
pay — understand  ? ' ' 


WORSE  AND  WORSE  179 

"Savee.     Can  do." 

But  Tom  Carruthers  collapsed  upon  the  window-seat. 
"If  this  was  lording  it  over  the  poor,  over- worked,  un 
derpaid  natives,  all  he  could  say  was " 

But  the  bitter  and  brilliant  remark  was  never  made, 
for  as  the  compradore  padded  softly  out,  Murray,  a 
senior  clerk  and  the  book-keeper,  rushed  in  excitedly. 
And  European  clerks  do  not  rush  about  much  between 
noon  and  three  in  Hong  Kong,  not  even  indoors  with 
drenched  tatties  at  the  windows  and  punkahs  well 
manned.  There  were  no  tatties  in  this  room — its  oc 
cupants  too  often  desired  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  wharf. 

"Out,  John,"  the  book-keeper  ripped  at  a  Chinese 
clerk  who  had  come  in  while  Holman  was  speaking  to 
the  compradore,  mounted  his  high  stool,  and  began  to 
write  busily.  At  Murray's  order  he  slid  off  the  stool, 
closed  his  book,  and  went  out  impassively. 

Scarcely  waiting  until  the  door  had  closed,  Murray 
said  anxiously,  ''But,  Mr.  Holman,  I  understood  you  to 
say  that  the  overdraft  for  the  new  dock  had  been  ar 
ranged  with  the  Bank — I  drew  up  the  exchange  accord 
ingly " 

"Quite  correct — the  transfer  is  to  be  made  to-day." 
But  Holman 's  voice  was  less  sanguine  than  his  words. 
He  scented  mere  trouble  still,  and  he  eyed  askance  the 
letter  in  Murray's  hand. 

"There  must  be  some  mistake,  sir,"  Murray  said 
desperately.  "The  Bank  has  just  notified  our  account 
ancy  department  that  an  overdraft  is  impossible. ' ' 

"Why?" 

"They  write  that  our  security  is  insufficient  and  fur 
ther  we  must  vacate  these  premises  immediately." 

"What?"  Carruthers  sprang  up  as  if  some  inimical 
concussion  had  impelled  him. 


i8o  MR.  WU 

"The  landlord  having  disposed  of  the  property," 
Murray  continued.  And  he  perched  himself  dejectedly 
on  one  of  the  Chinese  clerks'  high  stools,  as  if  the  ac 
cumulated  strain  of  a  few  morning  hours  had  unnerved 
his  sturdy  legs. 

"What  about  the  Company's  lease?"  Tom  persisted 
miserably. 

"Expired  in  March,"  Holman  said  doggedly. 
"We're  here  on  monthly  arrangement — I  supposed  you 
knew  that ;  every  one  else  does — we  expected  to  move  to 
the  new  buildings  at  our  own  docks.  The  very  roof 
taken  from  our  own  heads ! "  he  concluded  bitterly,  drop 
ping  down  heavily  into  his  chair. 

Tom  looked  at  him  ruefully  for  a  moment,  and  then 
went  up  to  Murray.  "I  say,  how  much  do  we  need? 
That'll  be  all  right.  I'll  cable  over  to  my  father " 

"I'm  afraid  it's  no  use,  sir,"  the  book-keeper  said 
regretfully.  "You  see,  it's  this  way :  the  Wang  Hi  Com 
pany  refuse  to  go  on  with  the  negotiations;  all  their 
principal  shareholders  are  natives,  and  these  threaten  to 
withdraw  their  capital  if  any  business  whatsoever  is  done 
with  us." 

Tom  Carruthers  gave  a  long,  sharp  whistle. 

Holman  looked  up.     "Precisely,"  he  said  dryly. 

"But — but — something's  got  to  be  done.  We  can't 
sit  here  and  see  the  ship  go  down — I  'm  blowed  if  we  can. 
And  I'm  damned  if  I  will.  Something's  got  to  be  done. 
But  I  say,  you  two,  what  shall  it  be  ?  What  ? ' ' 

He  spoke  to  them,  but  he  had  picked  up  Hilda's  photo 
graph,  and  was  looking  not  at  them  but  at  it. 

They  paid  his  question  as  little  heed  as  the  photo 
graph  did  in  its  frame.  They  had  no  answer  to  give  him. 
And  he  got  none — unless  he  could  piece  one  out  from  the 
hubbub  that  bubbled  up  from  the  sweating,  teeming 


WORSE  AND  WORSE  181 

wharf,  from  the  screaming,  pushing  coolie  women  in  the 
sampans,  from  the  pandemonium  of  noises  and  of  smells 
that  seethed  up  from  a  hundred  junks,  and  from  the 
mighty  conglomerate  waterside  life  and  boat  life  that 
is  the  Greater  Hong  Kong.  For  there  are  two  Hong 
Kongs — one  old  and  shabby  and  battered,  one  smiling 
and  well  kept;  and  the  smiling  city  on  the  hill-sides  is 
Hong  Kong  the  Little. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

SUSPENSE 

HP  HE  three  sat  brooding  in  silence  for  several  minutes, 
J.  until  one  of  the  native  clerks  came  in  and  held  the 
door  open  respectfully.  That  meant  that  the  chief  was 
coming,  and  Murray  slid  off  his  perch  and  slipped  quietly 
out  as  Gregory  came  slowly  in.  ' 

In  the  unsparing  afternoon  light  he  looked  a  broken 
lion — an  old  king-beast  with  sagging  skin  and  weakened 
mouth,  but  with  fierce  fight  still  in  his  tired  and  anxious 
eyes. 

Hunters  know  that  the  smaller  breeds  of  lions  are  the 
most  dangerous.  Robert  Gregory  was  not  a  large  man 
— he  barely  reached  his  wife's  good  inches.  But  he  was 
jungle-fierce  and  jungle-strong.  He  had  fought  many  a 
hard  fight  and  had  been  torn  and  scarred  in  fights,  but 
he  had  never  lost  one  yet.  He  had  pounded  his  way 
through  the  world,  butted  his  way  to  victory  and  wealth. 
He  had  no  finesse  and  no  super- judgment,  but  he  had 
splendid  pluck,  lion  courage,  bulldog  pertinacity;  and 
often  for  his  wife,  and  for  his  daughter  always,  he  had 
the  charming  tenderness  that  bulldogs  show  to  children. 

There  was  a  hint  of  unscrupulousness  in  his  face,  and 
he  had  a  jaw  of  iron.  He  was  a  very  thin  man,  and  it 
saved  him  from  looking  a  very  common  one. 

He  was  scrupulously  dressed — now  as  ever — and,  now 
as  ever,  just  a  shade  over-dressed.  His  appearance 

182 


SUSPENSE  183 

would  have  gained  had  his  watch-chain  been  a  trifle 
slenderer,  his  cummerbund  a  less  youthful  rose,  the 
canary-colored  diamond  in  his  ring  half  its  size,  or,  better 
still,  not  worn.  But  his  small,  well-kept  hands  were 
dark,  and  unmistakably  the  hands  of  a  man.  He  wore 
a  bangle — just  a  thread  of  twined  gold  set  with  two  or 
three  inferior  turquoise,  and  it  kept  slipping  down  his 
arm,  almost  over  his  knuckles — a  cheap  thing  that  had 
cost  less  than  his  cravat.  Hilda  had  given  it  to  him 
several  years  ago. 

He  came  in  deliberately — almost  as  if  he  too  were  very 
tired  or  beaten  by  the  day 's  terrific  heat — but  with  a  de 
termined  air  of  briskness,  and  nodded  crisply  to  Car- 
ruthers  and  Holman  as  he  took  his  own  chair  at  his  own 
desk. 

He  was  at  bay.  And  he  was  going  to  fight — to  the 
very  end,  let  the  end  be  what  it  might.  But,  in  spite  of 
his  fierce  self-control  and  genuine  grit,  he  did  not  look 
a  man  "fit"  to  put  up  a  big  fight.  For  two  nights  he 
had  had  little  sleep,  and  none  that  was  restful.  And  to 
Holman 's  friendly,  searching  eyes  he  betrayed  several 
signs  of  the  hideous  strain  and  worry  with  which  he  was 
battling.  The  business  catastrophes  that  had  heaped  up 
about  him  were  bad  enough — enough  to  unnerve  any 
man,  and  he  was  palpably  unnerved — but  the  first 
thought  in  his  mind,  the  burning  object  of  its  ceaseless 
search,  was — his  son.  He  was  holding  his  head  defiantly, 
but  the  veins  at  his  temples  were  twitching. 

Holman  took  the  telegram  out  of  his  pocket,  and,  with 
emotion  that  he  could  not  quite  conceal,  leaned  across 
the  desk,  holding  it  out  to  Gregory. 

"Mr.  Gregory,"  he  said— "the  Fdima "    But  he 

did  not  have  to  finish. 

"Oh,  yes!  I  know,  I  know,"  Gregory  said  listlessly. 


184  MR.  WU 

"I'm  sorry,"  Tom  Carruthers  began;  "I'm  awfully 
sorry  for  this,  Mr.  Gregory." 

Robert  Gregory  swung  round  in  his  chair  and  banged 
the  desk  fiercely  with  his  clenched  fist.  "Sorry — Tom! 
By  God,  111  make  some  one  pay  for  this — but  who? 
What  have  we  got  to  fight?  Holman,  you  still  think  it's 
this  man  Wu?  Eh?" 

"I  don't  think,  governor,"  Holman  said,  leaning 
across  the  desk  in  his  earnestness,  "I'm  positive.  In 
some  way  we've  run  up  against  the  most  powerful  man 
in  China." 

"Well,  I'm  testing  your  theory,  Holman.  I'm  having 
that  cursed  Chinaman  here." 

Tom  Carruthers  turned  in  his  insecure  seat  on  the 
window-ledge,  so  astonished  that  he  very  nearly  slid  off. 
it;  and  Holman  was  distinctly  perturbed. 

"I  sent  him  a  chit  this  morning  from  the  club,  telling 
Mm  I  wished  to  see  him  here  urgently  at  two  o'clock  on 
a  matter  of  the  gravest  importance. ' ' 

William  Holman  shook  his  head. 

"Take  it  from  me,  sir,  Wu  Li  Chang  is  not  the  man 
to  call  upon  any  one,"  he  said;  "they  must  go  to  him." 

"Indeed!"  Gregory  snapped. 

"And  did  you  see  him  at  two?"  Tom  said  eagerly. 

"No,  Tom;  he  sent  a  coolie  with  a  chit  to  say  that  he 
would  call  here  at  three — unless  he  found  it  inconvenient 
— unless  he  found  it  inconvenient!  Look.  I've  hur 
ried  over  from  the  club  to  see  him. ' ' 

Tom  came  across  the  room  and  picked  up  the  note 
Gregory  had  tossed  towards  him,  and  stood  studying  it 
closely. 

The  trouble  on  Holman 's  face  thickened.  "If  Mr.  Wu 
condescends  to  answer  such  a  summons,"  he  said 
earnestly,  "why,  that  very  fact  strengthens  my  belief.  I 


SUSPENSE  185 

tell  you  he  never  discusses  anything  outside  his  own  of 
fices — never!  And  if  for  once  he  breaks  that  rule,  he 
has  some  terrible  reason  for  doing  it — some  damnably 
sinister  motive." 

"Pretty  cool  sort  of  Johnnie,  anyway,"  Tom  com 
mented,  still  scrutinizing  Wu's  note.  "But  I  say,  what 
an  educated,  professional  sort  of  fist  he  writes. ' ' 

"Oh!"  Holman  said  impatiently,  "he's  got  us  both 
ways.  He  has  all  the  advantages  of  a  Western  education 
without  having  lost  a  scrap  of  his  Eastern  cunning.  I 
came  out  once  with  the  skipper  who  took  Wu  to  Europe 
— Wu  and  an  English  tutor  he'd  had  for  years — he  was 
only  a  kid  then,  but  Watson  said  he  played  a  better  game 
of  chess  than  any  white  man  on  board — unless  it  was  the 
tutor  chap — had  ever  seen  played  before,  bar  none.  Wu 
was  nine  or  ten  then.  He 's  forty  now,  and  no  doubt  his 
chess  has  been  improving  every  day  since." 

Gregory  smiled  nastily.  "Well,"  he  said,  "you  may 
be  perfectly  correct  in  all  you  say,  Holman,  but  it  seems 
to  me  that  you're  all  afraid  of  these  Chinamen." 

"I  am,  for  one  then,"  Holman  muttered.  "And 
I've  been  here  twenty  years." 

"Unnecessarily  afraid.  I  think  you'll  find  that  I'm 
perfectly  capable  of  dealing  with  the  fellow  when  he 
comes — and  he  '11  come  all  right — oh,  yes !  he  '11  come. ' ' 

"I  wonder,"  Holman  said. 

"I'm  sure  I  hope  so,"  Tom  Carruthers  said  heartily. 

Holman  devoutly  hoped  not,  but  he  did  not  say  it. 

"He'll  come,"  Gregory  repeated  didactically,  almost 
truculently;  "he'll  come,  as  full  of  oil  as  a  pound  of  but 
ter.  What  the  devil!"  he  added,  with  a  displeased 
change  of  voice,  as  silk  skirts  and  high-heeled  shoes 
sounded  in  the  hall.  "I  told  you  not  to  leave  the  hotel," 
he  complained,  with  affection  and  dismay  mingled  in  his 


186  MR.  WU 

voice,  as  his  wife  and  daughter  came  through  the  deor. 

''Of  course  you  did,  poor  old  dear,"  Hilda  told  him 
soothingly,  seating  herself  on  the  corner  of  his  desk  and 
patting  him  encouragingly  on  his  shoulder.  "But 
Mother  can't  rest.  How  can  she?  And  if  she  isn't 
scouring  the  island — she  must  know  every  inch  of  it  by 
now — she  is  hunting  on  the  mainland  with  Ah  Wong." 

"Oh!  I  know,  I  know,"  Florence  Gregory  said 
wearily,  subsiding  indifferently  into  the  chair  Holman 
placed  for  her. 

"You'll  wear  yourself  out,"  her  husband  said  roughly, 
but  not  unkindly. 

The  mother  smiled,  contemptuous  of  the  fatigue  from 
which  she  was  wan  and  trembling.  "It's  no  use  saying 
anything  to  me.  I  can't  rest.  Have  you  heard  any 
thing  ?  That 's  all  I  've  come  for. ' ' 

"Not  yet,  dear.  I've  seen  the  Governor  again.  He 
was  most  kind — really  very  kind.  Everything  is  being 
done — everything — and  will  be — and  it  is  foolish  to  go 
on  wearing  yourself  out  like  this. ' ' 

"I  am  not  wearing  myself  out,"  his  wife  returned 
petulantly.  "The  suspense  is  wearing  my  heart  out — 
and  no  one  seems  to  care — no  one ! ' ' 

"Yes,  I  know  how  you  feel,  dear,"  her  husband 
answered  her  gently,  "and  what  you  must  be  suffering. 
But  try  to  spare  yourself  just  a  little,  for  my  sake.  And 
believe  me — you  can — all  that  is  possible  is  being  done — 
and  this — this  is  man's  work." 

"Is  it?"  the  mother  said  dully.  "I'm  not  so  sure, 
I'm  not  so  sure."  She  closed  her  eyes  and  leaned  back 
in  the  big  office  chair,  burning  and  shivering  with  excite 
ment,  and  terribly,  terribly  tired. 

Ah  Wong  looked  about  the  office  desperately.  She 
wanted  cushions,  but  there  were  no  cushions  there,  and 


SUSPENSE  187 

she  went  and  stood  very  close  behind  her  mistress;  and 
when  Mrs.  Gregory  moved  her  head  restlessly,  the 
Chinese  woman  slid  her  hand  between  it  and  the  sharp 
edge  of  the  chair's  hard  back. 

And  they  might  well  be  tired — the  amah  too,  as  well  as 
the  frailer,  fairer  woman.  For  they  had  indeed  been 
beating  the  island  and  the  mainland  for  days  now — 
searching,  searching,  and  often  in  quarters  of  whose 
existence  the  English  woman  could  not  have  suspected, 
and  whose  nature  she  had  but  dimly  grasped — some  of 
them  quarters  into  which  no  European  woman,  nice  or 
otherwise,  had  penetrated  before.  But  Mrs.  Gregory 
had  been  in  no  peril.  She  had  not  suffered  rudeness 
even.  Ah  Wong  had  guarded  her  well.  Ah  Wong  had 
known  how  to  do  it. 

But  not  one  clew,  not  even  the  hint  of  a  clew,  had  they 
found.  Nor  had  John  Bradley,  who,  in  a  different  and 
quieter  way,  had  been  hunting  as  indefatigably — and  was 
hunting  now. 

Robert  Gregory  sat  crouched  a  little  forward  now, 
leaning  on  the  desk,  watching  his  wife  miserably,  but 
saying  no  more — tortured  for  her  (almost  forgetting  his 
own  pain  in  hers,  or  feeling  his  own  only  through  hers), 
but  pathetically  glad  to  have  her  rest  even  this  little. 

Holman  slipped  over  to  the  window  and  stood  looking 
moodily  out  to  the  Chinese-and-Mongol-teeming  dockside. 
Tom  Carruthers  sat  quietly  down  on  the  big  desk  too 
and  took  Hilda's  hand  in  his. 

For  several  moments  there  was  a  silence  in  the  room 
that  was  broken  only  by  the  ticking  of  the  clock  and  the 
incessant  echo  of  hubbub  that  buzzed  in  through  the 
windows,  the  other  five  all  conspiring  eagerly  to  hold 
and  guard  Mrs.  Gregory's  rest  undisturbed  until  she 
broke  it  herself.  Even  the  Chinese  clerk  who  had  come 


i88  MR.  WU 

in  just  after  Ah  "Wong,  and  who  sat,  with  his  face  to 
the  wall,  writing  in  the  farthest  corner,  began  to  drive  a 
noiseless  pen,  without  looking  round. 

But  the  clock  struck  three,  and  after  a  startled  glance 
thrown  up  at  it,  Mr.  Gregory  said  softly,  "Florence." 

"Yes?"  his  wife  answered  drearily,  without  moving; 
she  did  not  even  open  her  eyes. 

The  husband  sighed  remorsefully.  "Dear,  I'm  afraid 
you  '11  have  to  go. ' ' 

"Why?"  she  asked  indifferently,  as  if  the  answer 
could  not  interest  her,  and  still  without  moving  her 
head  or  opening  her  eyes. 

"Well,  you  see,  I've  made  an  appointment  here  at 
three — and  it  may,  it  just  may,  prove  important,  with — 
with  a  man. ' ' 

"Who?"    Her  voice  was  still  devoid  of  interest. 

"I  expect  Mr.  Wu  here." 

Before  her  husband  had  spoken  the  last  word  Mrs. 
Gregory  was  bolt  upright  in  her  chair,  wide-eyed,  alert — 
as  if  galvanized,  revitalized,  tense  and  acute. 

*'Mr.  Wu?"  she  whispered  eagerly. 

"Yes,"  he  told  her. 

And  the  amah  fingered  softly  something  hidden  in  her 
gown. 

"About  Basil!" 

"About  a  lot  of  things,"  Gregory  said  grimly.  "And 
Basil  in  particular." 

"Oh!  and  he  can  help  us!  You  think  so,  don't  you, 
Eobert?" 

"He  can  help  us  all  right,  Mrs.  Gregory,"  William 
Holman  said  sternly,  "  if  he  will. ' ' 

' '  Oh !  he  must.     He  shall ! ' '  she  said  hoarsely 

"At  any  rate,  he's  coming.  And  that's  more  than  I 
thought,"  Holman  said,  as  a  new  degree  and  quality  of 


SUSPENSE  189 

hubbub  belched  up  from  the  yard.  And  as  he  spoke 
Murray  came  in  with  two  cards — a  long,  thin  slip  of 
crimson  paper,  the  mandarin's  name  and  title  inscribed 
on  it  in  black  Chinese  characters,  and  an  ordinary  Eng 
lish  visting  card,  simply  engraved  "Mr.  Wu." 

"He's  getting  out  of  his  rickshaw,  sir,"  Murray  told 
his  employer. 

"And  every  man  jack  of  the  coolies  is  ko 'towing  to 
him  as  if  he  was  a  god, ' '  Holman  grunted  from  the  win 
dow. 

Gregory  rose  to  his  feet  with  a  careful  show  of  calm. 
''Well,"  he  remarked  cheerfully,  "we'll  soon  see  now 
what  sort  of  stuff  this  well-advertised  Chinaman  is  made 
of.  Show  him  in,  Murray.  Holman,  take  my  wife  to 
the  den  near  the  counting-house.  She  '11  want  to  stay,  of 
course,  to  hear  the  result.  Now,  please,  off  you  all  go. ' ' 

The  others  turned  to  the  door  to  which  he  had  pointed 
— not  the  door  that  led  to  the  hall,  but  at  the  other  end 
of  the  long  room — but  Florence  Gregory  went  up  to  her 

husband.  "Robert "  she  began,  but  she  could  not 

say  more,  and  her  eyes  were  swimming. 

Her  husband  cupped  her  face  in  his  hands.  "There, 
Mother,  there,"  he  said  tenderly,  and  just  a  little 
brokenly,  "I  know,  dear,  I  know.  I  understand.  There 
— there.  It's  all  right.  I '11  be  careful — very,  very  care 
ful.  Ah  Wong!"  But  he  need  not  have  called  Ah 
Wong — she  was  there  already,  waiting  to  serve;  and 
though  Hilda  turned  to  her  mother  as  if  to  help  her,  and 
Tom  Carruthers  and  Holman  did  too,  it  was  Ah  Wong 
who  led  her  out,  Ah  Wong  to  whose  band  she  held  and 
leaned  on  a  little  as  she  went. 


CHAPTER 
THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  DUEL, 

AT  the  door  Holman,  as  devoted  a  servant  in  his 
masculine  and  British  way  as  Ah  Wong  was  in  her 
way,  turned  back  almost  peremptorily,  and  coming  close 
to  Robert  Gregory  said  sharply,  " Governor!"     There 
was  entreaty  in  the  word,  and  there  was  command. 

Gregory  recognized  both,  and  accepted  both  loyally 
from  so  tried  and  loyal  a  servant.  It  was  one  of  his 
strengths  that  he  recognized  and  appreciated  valuable 
subordinates.  ''Well?"  he  said. 

"Handle  this  man  carefully,"  the  old  clerk  said, 
speaking  more  emphatically  than  he  had  ever  spoken  to 
any  one  before — and  he  was  an  emphatic  man  always. 

Gregory  nodded. 

As  Tom  held  open  the  door  behind  his  chief's  desk, 
Murray  opened  the  other  door  and  announced, ' '  Mr.  Wu, 
sir." 

"Ah!  show  him  in,"  Mr.  Gregory  said,  rather  too  in 
differently,  and  so  scoring  the  first  mistake  in  the  duel  of 
which  it  was  the  first  thrust.  Holman  knotted  vexed 
brows,  and  the  wife  threw  an  imploring  look.  But 
Gregory  saw  neither,  but  busied  himself  ostentatiously 
with  his  papers,  writing  with  head  down,  posing  as  being 
deeply  immersed  in  business — and  just  a  little  overdoing 
it. 

The  mandarin  stood  in  the  doorway. 

190 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  DUEL          191 

It  was  dim  there,  and  at  first  glance  he  might  have 
been  thought  an  Englishman.  A  second  look  showed 
his  Chinese  nationality  but  accentuated  by  his  European 
clothes — a  light  summer  suit,  a  little  better  cut,  if  that 
were  possible,  than  Robert  Gregory's,  and  more  quietly 
worn.  No  silk  handkerchief  showed  from  a  pocket,  no 
gay  cummerbund  swathed  his  waist,  and  Wu  wore  no 
jewelry,  for  the  short,  black  fob  of  watered  silk  that 
hung  from  his  vest  was  plain  as  plain.  He  stood  a 
moment  in  the  doorway  perfectly  at  ease,  dignified  but 
urbane.  As  tortured  by  the  tragedy  in  which  he  had 
played  high-sacrificial  priest  as  Robert  Gregory,  who  did 
not  even  guess  at  its  crux,  could  possibly  be,  "Wu  showed 
of  that  torture  no  trace.  In  appearance,  in  demeanor 
and  in  breeding  the  advantage  seemed  with  the  Chinese 
man,  not  with  the  English.  And  why  not  ?  For  the  ad 
vantage  in  all  was  "Wu's. 

The  slenderness  of  the  Oxford  days  and  the  Alpine 
climbing  was  gone;  but  no  man  could  have  looked  less 
"full  of  oil,"  less  fat.  "Mr.  Wu"  was  tall  and 
powerfully  built,  pleasant  visaged  and  altogether  gentle 
manly,  and  unmistakably,  in  spite  of  his  "smart"  tailor 
ing,  an  athlete. 

The  two  English  women  in  the  other  doorway  turned 
to  look  at  him,  and  he  bowed  to  them  quietly,  catching 
the  elder's  eyes  and  for  an  instant  holding  them.  Some 
thing  in  his  quiet,  respectful  gaze  fascinated  while  it 
disturbed  her.  She  turned  again  to  go,  but  on  the  door, 
ledge  turned  and  looked  at  him  again,  almost  as  if  some 
power  of  mesmerism  had  brushed  against  her.  Wu  al. 
most  smiled — not  quite — and  bowed  again,  lower  than 
before,  but  not  too  low.  And  she  went  out  a  little  hur 
riedly,  the  others  with  her.  But  Ah  Wong,  who  natur 
ally  went  last,  looked  at  the  great  man  deliberately — a» 


192  MR.  WU 

strange  thing  for  a  Chinese  woman  of  her  caste  to  do. 
And  as  he  looked,  she  read  his  face  and  saw  the  tragedy 
hidden  there.  But  Ah  Wong  and  the  Mandarin  Wu  had 
met  before. 

The  Chinese  clerk  had  slid  off  his  stool  and  crept 
cringing  towards  Wu — cringing,  almost  grovelling.  Wu 
snarled  at  him  noiselessly,  and  the  fellow  almost  crawled 
from  the  room;  and  Murray  went  after  him  and  closed 
the  door.  Holman  had  already  closed  the  other.  The 
duellists  were  alone. 

They  had  no  seconds. 

Neither  spoke.     The  clock  tocked  on. 

Outside  a  new  note,  a  note  of  exultation,  had  come  into 
the  incessant  coolie  chorus;  and  Wu's  jinrickshaw  man 
— for  Wu  had  not  come  in  state,  but  very  simply —  squat 
ted  between  the  shafts  and  smoked. 

Gregory  continued  to  write.  Wu  watched  him  with 
a  faint,  contemptuous  smile,  and  then  he  made  a  slight 
gesture  towards  the  Englishman.  Gregory  did  not  see, 
but  he  felt  it,  and  he  obeyed  it,  and  fidgeted  uncomfort 
ably,  and  then  spoke,  saying,  still  writing  and  without 
looking  up,  "Sit  down,  Wu." 

A  deeper  smile  flitted  across  the  Chinese  face.  "I  beg 
your  pardon,  Mr.  Gregory?" 

At  the  man's  voice  Gregory  almost  started — it  was  at 
once  so  masterful,  so  pleasantly  pitched  and  so  highly 
bred.  It  was  a  clear  voice — as  the  Chinese  voice  almost 
invariably  is — but  it  was  deep  and  rich,  which  in  the 
Chinese  is  very  rare.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr. 
Gregory?"  Wu  had  said. 

And  Gregory  recognized  and  regretted  his  blunder, 
But  he  stood  by  it — there  was  nothing  else  to  do,  he 
thought — and  said  again,  ' '  Sit  down,  Wu. ' ' 

"I  would  suggest,"  the  Chinese  remarked  smoothly, 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  DUEL          193 

"that  Mr.  Gregory  should  not  call  me  'Wu,'  but  'Mr. 
Wu' " 

Robert  Gregory  looked  up  sharply,  and,  when  he  had 
looked,  rose  less  sharply  and  even  a  little  less  confidently. 
He  had  never  seen  Wu  before.  And  he  was  not  a  little 
taken  aback  at  the  man's  dress,  his  splendid  size  and  un 
deniably  superior  manner.  And  with  that  first  look 
something  very  like  a  touch  of  fear  came  to  Robert 
Gregory,  and  a  subtle,  vague  sense  of  the  almost  hypnotic 
power  of  Wu's  personality. 

"< — Otherwise,"  the  Chinese  continued — just  the 
faintest  hint  of  amusement  in  the  quiet,  courteous  voice 
— "I  shall  be  compelled  to  call  Mr.  Gregory  plain 
'Gregory'  to  reciprocate  the  honor  he  has  done  me,  and 
I  do  not  think  we  are  sufficiently  intimate  to  allow  of 
such  a  familiarity — on  my  part." 

"Oh!"  the  other  said,  as  nonchalantly  as  he  could, 
and  looking  not  at  his  visitor  but  at  the  letters  he  was 
holding,  "I'm  a  busy  man."  He  felt  the  prick.  Wu 
had  drawn  first  blood.  The  duel  was  far  from  fair — one 
foe  played  a  rapier  with  a  master-wrist;  one  bungled 
with  a  bludgeon  awkwardly. 

"Quite  so,"  Wu  agreed;  "but  such  a  fraction  of  a 
second  only — Wu  is  so  short  a  name  that  you  could  say 
'Mr.  Wu'  while  I  was  saying  'Gregory.'  '  A  threat 
was  never  made  more  delicately — or  with  a  nicer  smile — • 
but  it  was  made,  and  recorded  in  both  minds,  and  with 
it  a  sinister  something  of  prophecy. 

Robert  Gregory  winced.  "  Oh !  sit  down, ' '  he  said  un 
easily. 

The  reply  was  easy  and  pleasant,  "Thank  you!" 
And,  laying  his  hat  on  the  desk,  Wu  sat. 

Gregory  remained  standing — fussing  at  the  papers 
and  his  pigeon-holes.  And  his  tone  was  mandatory. 


194  MR-  wu 

"Now,  Mr.  Wu"— Wu  inclined  his  head  slightly— " I'm 
not  given  to  fine  shades,  equivocations,  diplomatic  finesse 
or  any  other  Eastern  method  of  wasting  time." 

" Quite  so."  Wu's  tone  was  as  polite  as  his  words. 
But  the  amusement — imperceptible  to  Gregory — was  a 
little  less,  the  contempt  a  little  more. 

"And  so,"  the  Englishman  continued,  "If  I'm  blunt, 
it's  because — I  mean  business." 

"Business!"  the  mandarin  exclaimed,  "Ah!  I 
wondered  what  had  procured  me  the  honor  of  this  invi 
tation — somewhat  peremptorily  conveyed,  I  fear  I  must 
remark.  But  doubtless  that  was  done  to  save  time  too. 
However,  if  it  is  upon  a  matter  of  business " 

"If  you'll  allow  me  to  tell  you  first,"  Gregory  broke  in 
irritably  (and  he  was  irritated  almost  beyond  endur 
ance),  "then  you'll  know  better,  won't  you?" 

"One  moment,"  Wu  interposed,  slightly  smilingly, 
"pardon  me,  but  I  do  not  like  to  remain  seated  whilst 
you  are " 

"Never  mind  me,"  the  other  said  gruffly. 

"  Oh ! "  Wu  returned  simply,  "  I  don 't.     But  still ' ' 

"I  think  a  man  may  please  himself  in  his  own  office" 
— Gregory's  voice  was  querulous  with  irritation. 

"Quite  so,"  the  bland  voice  replied,  "when  he  is 
alone. " 

"Then" — pugnaciously — "if  you  don't  object,  I  think 
I  '11  remain  as  I  am. ' ' 

"Not  at  all,"  Wu  said  gravely,  and  rising;  "in  that 
case,  we  '11  both  stand. ' ' 

For  a  moment  the  two  men  measured  each  other  and 
themselves  against  each  other — Wu  very  politely,  but 
with  a  thin,  cold  smile  just  lurking  at  one  corner  of  his 
mouth.  Gregory  fumbled  for  a  cigarette,  lit  it  clumsily, 
drew  a  whiff,  then  threw  it  down  and  stamped  on  it. 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  DUEL          195 

Wu  waiting  patiently,  and  watching  with  an  almost 
flattering  evidence  of  interest. 

"The  fact  is,  Mr.  Gregory,"  Wu  continued,  "I  have 
my  own  little  prejudices;  and  if  you  remain  standing 
whilst  I  am  seated,  it  will  seem  to  me — possibly  very 
unreasonably — that  you  are  standing,  not  out  of  courtesy 
to  me,  but  to  exhibit  to  me  a  minatory  and  even  over 
bearing  presence. ' ' 

For  a  moment  Gregory  fought  with  himself.  He  was 
hotly  angry,  and  more  chagrined  than  angry.  And  he 
knew  now  that  he  was  completely  at  sea.  But  he  made  a 
brave  effort  to  control  himself.  He  had  promised  Hoi- 
man  and  his  wife — tacitly — in  response  to  Holman's 
earnest  word  and  the  pleading  in  her  eyes  as  she 
had  turned  to  go.  And  he  wanted  to  find  or  trace  his 
son. 

"Pray  be  seated,  Mr.  Wu,"  he  said,  after  an  instant, 
and  indicated  with  a  bow  a  chair.  But  Wu  caught  the 
irony,  of  course,  in  the  elaborate  bow  and  the  mock- 
courtesy  of  the  request.  But  he  bowed  quite  gravely  in 
return,  and  again  said,  " Thank  you,"  as  he  sat  down. 

Gregory  sat  also;  he  did  not  dare  to  have  his  own 
way  in  this  small  thing,  and  the  little  defeat  irked  him 
and  contributed  to  his  thickening  uneasiness.  However, 
if  he  had  to  sit,  whether  he  chose  or  not,  he  could  sit  as 
he  liked,  in  his  own  chair,  in  his  own  office,  he'd  be 
damned  if  he  couldn't — and  he  did.  He  put  his  elbows 
decidedly  on  the  desk,  rested  his  chin  firmly  on  his 
knuckles,  and  faced  Wu  with  a  fixed  look  and  fighting 
§yes,  his  face  thrust  forward  aggressively. 

Wu  regarded  the  Englishman  placidly. 

"Now,  Mr.  Wu,  what  the  hell  are  you  up  to?" 
Gregory  spoke  quietly  but  decisively,  and  he  leaned  still 
farther  across  the  table. 


196  MR.  WU 

Wu  took  his  time  before 'he  returned  blandly,  "Would 
you  mind  repeating  your  question  ? ' ' 

"I  think  you  heard  it  plainly  enough." 

"Quite  plainly,  thank  you — quite.  Most  audible. 
But  I  thought  you  would  perhaps  welcome  the  oppor 
tunity  of  expressing  yourself  a  little  more  politely. ' ' 

"I'm  not  out  for  a  ceremonious  talk,"  Gregory 
blurted.  "You'll  notice  there's  none  of  your  customary 
tea  on  the  table — no  whiskey  and  soda  either — no 
cigars."  He  was  too  good  a  business  man  not  to  know 
that,  young  as  the  interview  was,  he  was  losing  ground 
already,  but  he  was  not  skilful  enough,  and  far  too  over 
wrought,  to  conceal  the  anger  he  felt  at  the  unwelcome 
knowledge. 

"Thank  you,"  Wu  replied  lazily,  and  with  nice  good 
humor,  "I  do  not  smoke" — that  was  not  quite  true. 
He  smoked  a  water-pipe  at  home.  He  had  smoked  so 
with  Nang  Ping  a  thousand  times.  "I  never  drink 
whiskey,  and  I  am  degraded  enough  to  prefer  tea  made 
in  our  Chinese  way.  However,  I  have  perceived,  as  you 
say,  that  this  is  not — a  ceremonious  occasion. ' ' 

"Meanwhile,"  Gregory  snapped,  "I'd  like  an  answer 
to  my  question. ' ' 

"Which  was "  the  Chinese  asked  gently,  but  there 

was  a  narrow  glint  of  contemptuous  laughter  in  his 
eyes. 

"My  question,"  Gregory  almost  thundered,  "was — 
'what  the  hell  are  you  up  to,  Mr.  Wu?'  ' 

"Pray  be  a  little  more  explicit,"  Wu  said  coldly. 

"I  have  every  intention  of  being  so,"  was  the  sharp 
reply.  "Now,  please  listen  to  me  very  carefully." 

"I  am  all  attention."  A  very  stupid  listener  might 
have  thought  the  smoothness  of  the  mandarin's  voice 
meekness.  Gregory  did  not  make  that  mistake. 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  DUEL          197 

"Let  me  preface  what  I  have  to  say,"  he  said  warn- 
ingly,  "by  remarking  that  I  have  the  reputation  of  being 
a  very  good  friend — but  a  dangerous  enemy." 

"Who  could  doubt  it?"  Wu  murmured,  bowing  admir 
ingly. 

"He  is  a  rash  man  who  dares  to  oppose  me,  Mr.  Wu. 

Do  you  know  my  method  of  dealing  with  such  a  man  ? ' ' 

"I  tremble  to  contemplate  his  fate.     But  I  am  never 

rash."    Wu's  voice  was  meek  now — for  no  counterfeit 

could  be  so  fine. 

' '  I  crush  him,  sir — crush  him  relentlessly. ' ' 
"  It  is  always  interesting ' ' — giving  Gregory  a  half  look 
— ' ;  to  hear,  about  the  methods  of  great  men. ' ' 

"I  mention  these  things  to  you  by  way  of  warning." 
The  Englishman  spoke  gropingly;  his  irritation  was 
growing. 

"Warning?"  Wu  raised  his  delicate  eyebrows 
delicately.  "Really" — he  sighed — "I'm  almost  afraid 
to  follow  you." 

"I  think  my  meaning  is  sufficiently  clear." 
"To  yourself,  no  doubt;  but  to  my  limited  understand 
ing — if  I  might  beg  you  to  speak  a  little  more  plainly." 
"I  will.     I  will  ask  you  a  plain  question.    Are  you 
my  friend,  Mr.  Wu,  or  are  you  my  enemy  ? ' ' 

Wu  smiled  openly,  and  there  was  a  slight  drawl  in 
his  voice  answering,  "Could  I  aspire  to  be  the  one,  or 
presume  to  be  the  other?  Can  the  rush-light  claim 
friendship  with  the  sun,  or  the  mountain-stream  declare 
war  against  the  ocean?" 

' '  Oh,  yes,  yes !  you  're  very  plausible ! ' '  Gregory  threw 
himself  back  in  his  chair  wearily,  and  he  was  weary. 

"  'Plausible'  is  not  a  very  pleasant  word,  Mr.  Greg 
ory,"  Wu  said  quietly,  but  in  a  tone  of  curt  resentment* 
"You  ask  me  to  speak  plainly." 


198  MR.  WU 

"But  not  to  speak  rudely.  I  do  not  employ  rudeness, 
nor  do  I  accept  it.  And  now  may  I  ask  how  this  hypo 
thetical  hostility  of  mine  has  been  manifested?" 

"In  a  number  of  ways,"  Gregory  returned,  a  little 
sneeringly. 

"Will  you  name  one?"    Wu  was  entirely  bland  again. 

"You  must  be  aware,"  the  other  told  him,  "that  my 
firm  has  recently  sustained  a  somewhat  extraordinary 
series  of  setbacks. ' ' 

"I  regret  to  hear  that  you  have  been  somewhat  un 
fortunate" — Wu  said  it  sympathetically. 

"I  am  determined  that  these  annoyances  shall  cease" 
— Robert  Gregory  said  it  doggedly. 

' '  But  even  Mr.  Gregory, ' '  the  Chinese  man  said  sadly, 
' '  can  hardly  hope  to  order  the  workings  of  Fate. ' ' 

"But  are  they  workings  of  Fate" — Gregory  leaned 
across  the  table  aggressively  again,  his  bullet  head  thrust 
out— "or  of  Mr.  Wu?" 

For  a  moment  Wu  regarded  him  in  silence.  Then, 
"Surely  you  are  joking?" 

"I  know  pretty  well  as  much  about  you  as  you  know 
yourself" — Gregory's  voice  was  as  insolent  as  his  words. 

' '  Why  should  you  not  ? ' '  Wu  replied  cheerfully.  ' '  My 
life  is  an  open  book.  All  who  run  may  read. ' ' 

"But  there's  one  thing  I  don't  know!" 

"Surely  not?" 

"Your  object.  Now  you  see  I  speak  frankly — I  lay 
my  cards  on  the  table.  What  is  your  motive  ?  What  do 
you  want  ?  Come,  Mr.  Wu,  I  'm  willing  to  meet  you  on 
a  friendly  footing. ' ' 

"You  are  very  kind,"  Wu  said  subtly. 

Gregory  made  an  impatient  gesture,  and  the  framed 
picture  fell  between  them.  The  Chinese  picked  it  up— 
"Mrs.  Gregory?"  he  said  courteously. 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  DUEL          199 

* '  Our  daughter, ' '  The  English  father  bit  his  lip.  He 
was  convinced  that  to  press  the  quarrel  further  with  this 
opponent  would  be  to  press  to  his  own  defeat.  But  he 
restrained  himself  with  heroism.  To  see  Hilda's  photo 
graph  in  "VWs  Chinese  hand,  Wu's  Chinese  eyes  on 
Hilda's  face,  maddened  him.  Twenty  Europeans  had 
lifted  the  picture  from  his  desk,  held  it  so,  and  com 
mented  on  it  admiringly — and  her  father  had  been  highly 
pleased.  Wu  merely  bowed  and  replaced  it  quietly,  face 
towards  Gregory — and  Gregory  itched  to  throttle  him. 

If  Robert  Gregory  had  known  of  his  son's  spoiling  of 
the  Chinese  girl — a  girl  of  gentler  birth  and  softer  rear 
ing  than  Hilda's — he  would  not  have  considered  Basil's 
crime  unforgivably  heinous.  "Damned  foolish!" 
would  have  been  his  stricture.  But  that  this  Chinese 
man — a  father  too,  as  he  knew,  and,  for  all  he  knew,  as 
clean-lived  and  as  nice-minded  as  himself — had  held 
Hilda's  portrait  in  his  hand,  and  look  at  it  quietly, 
seemed  to  Gregory  hideous,  and  his  gorge  rose  at  it. 

Wu  Li  Chang  read  the  other  clearly,  and,  quite  indif 
ferent  alike  to  the  man  and  to  his  narrow  folly,  he 
stiffened  coldly,  for  he  knew  what  Robert  Gregory  did 
not,  and  he  was  thinking  of  Nang  Ping  as  he  had  looked 
down  upon  her  last,  heaped  and  stricken  in  final  expia 
tion  on  his  floor. 

But,  both  through  an  instinct  of  breeding  and  through 
utter  indifference,  he  made  no  comment  on  the  picture, 
either  in  flattery  or  in  admiration,  as  he  replaced  it.  But 
he  bent  his  head  congratulatory  toward  the  other  and 
said :  ' '  Ah !  yes.  Miss  Gregory  reminds  me — slightly — 
of  some  one  I  have  known.  Probably  an  English  lady — 
I  met  years  ago  when  I  lived  in  England.  I  regretted 
not  being  at  home  when  Mrs.  Gregory  and  your  daughter 
so  honored  my  poor  garden — and  my  daughter." 


zoo  MR.  WU 

He  did  not  admire  Hilda's  picture,  and  it  was  far  too 
much  trouble  to  pretend  an  appreciation  he  did  not  feel. 
And  he^ thought  her  dress,  or  lack  of  it,  disgusting,  pre 
cisely  as  he  had  thought  the  decolletage  of  "honorable" 
(and  entirely  "honest")  English  ladies  abominable  when 
he  had  been  a  boy  at  Portland  Place.  And  his  Chinese 
taste  (good  or  bad)  would  never  have  put  a  picture  of 
Nang  Ping  in  his  offices,  where  casual  callers  and  mere 
business  acquaintances  might  scrutinize  and  comment  on 
it.  He  had  killed  his  girl — this  man  sitting  easily  there ; 
calm  and  imperturbable — not  a  week  since,  and  neither 
waking  nor  sleeping  had  he  regretted  it — not  even  for  an 
instant.  But  a  scented  bead  that  he  had  found  beneath 
her  robe,  when  they  had  lifted  up  what  had  been  his 
only  child,  lay  now  secure  in  an  inner  pocket.  He  could 
feel  it  where  it  lay. 

"On  a  friendly  footing,  Mr.  Gregory?"  Wu  took  up 
the  broken  thread.  "You  Westerners  are  truly  mag 
nanimous.  'Friendship'  is  usually  actuated  either  by 
hope  of  gain  or  by — fear." 

' '  Don 't  you  trifle  with  me,  Mister  Wu, ' '  Gregory  said 
hotly,  rising  and  beginning  to  pace  up  and  down  the  long 
room — an  ugly  and  determined  look  hardening  on  his 
face — "I'll  have  no  more  of  this  beating  about  the  bush. 
To  begin  with, ' ' — controlling  himself  a  little  better :  there 
was  so  much  at  stake — "to  begin  with,  Mr.  Wu,  the 
mysterious  disappearance  of  my  son  is  only  one  of  the 
long  series  of  unexplained  disasters  that  have  recently 
fallen  on  me,  and  concerning  which  I  want  an  explana 
tion." 

"Then  why  not  seek  it  from  those  who  can  enlighten 
you?" 

"There's  no  one  more  capable  of  doing  that  than  your- 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  DUEL         201 

self,"  the  Englishman  said,  swinging  round  on  the 
Chinese  fiercely.  ''What's  behind  it  all,  Mr.  "Wu? 
What's  the  game  you  are  playing  at?  Why  have  you 
devoted  your  sinister  attentions  to  me  and  mine  ?  What 
have  we  done  to  start  you  on  this  career  of  kidnapping — 
of  ship-scuttling — of  incendiarism,  among  the  coolies 
out  there — and  all  the  rest  of  it?" 

Wu  looked  at  his  watch,  put  it  back  in  his  pocket, 
picked  up  his  hat,  and  rose  deliberately.  "Mr.  Greg 
ory,"  he  said  coldly,  "my  time  is  of  a  certain  value. 
Time  is  money,  you  Westerners  say.  Well,  I  never 
waste  time — although  I  am  never  in  a  hurry.  You  will 
excuse  me  if  I  wish  you  a  very  good  afternoon. ' ' 

"No  so  fast,  Mr.  Wu,"  the  shipper  said  ferociously, 
thrusting  himself  between  Wu  and  the  door.  "My 
time's  precious  too,  but  I'm  going  to  devote  all  that's 
requisite  to  getting  an  answer  to  my  question.  I've  got 
the  conviction  lodged  in  this  obstinate  British  head  of 
mine  that  you  know  quite  well  what  I  want  to  know — 
and  what  I  am  going  to  know.  And  that 's  what  I  've  got 
you  here  for — to  tell  me  what  I  want  to  know.  And,  by 
the  Lord,  you  will  before  you  leave  this  room.  I  know 
that  you  can  lay  hands  on  my  son — dead  or  alive.  I 
know  that  you  can — by  God!  I  know  that  you  can " 

' '  Can  you  lay  hands  on  him  ? ' ' 

"  I  ?  No !  No ! "  the  English  father  almost  sobbed  it, 
recoiling. 

"Well,  when  you  can " 

"But  I  can  lay  hands  on  you  if  you  don't  satisfy 
me " 

"I  do  not  think  that  Mr.  Gregory  will  commit  that — 
indiscretion, ' '  Wu  said  significantly. 

There  was  a  bitter  pause.    When  Gregory  broke  it 


202  MR.  WU 

his  voice  wavered;  he  was  greatly  moved.  "You're 
ruining  my  business,"  he  cried,  "you're  hanging  over  me 
like  a  sword  of  Damocles." 

"That  sword  may  have  had  two  edges,  Mr.  Gregory," 
Wu  said  quietly.  "The  man  who  wounds  his  enemy 
with  one  is  apt  to  cut  himself  with  the  other.  The 
sword,"  he  added,  strolling  to  the  window,  "is  not  my 
weapon. ' ' 

Eobert  Gregory  backed  stealthily  up  to  the  door  and 
fumbled  with  his  right  hand  in  his  pocket.  And  Wu, 
turning  to  go,  saw  that  his  face  was  twitching. 

"Wu  Li  Chang  had  no  thought  of  sparing  this  other 
father — Basil  Gregory's  father — but  he  was  sorry  for 
him  now;  and  it  may  be  recorded — as  a  modest  contri 
bution  to  the  study  of  racial  comparisons. 

Wu  moved  to  the  door  which  Gregory  stood  barring. 
"And  now,  if  you  will  kindly  allow  me  to  pass " 

And  Robert  Gregory  thrust  his  revolver  in  Wu  Li 
Chang's  face. 

The  Chinese  looked  into  the  shining  barrel.  He 
smiled.  "Ah!  A  Webley,  I  observe.  Very  good  make, 
I  have  made  excellent  practice  with  them  myself." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
SOMETHING  TO  Go  ON 

GREGORY,  nearly  exasperated  by  the  other's  coolness, 
made  a  threatening  gesture.  And  then  came  the 
sudden  blazing  out  of  ferocious  rage  that  smolders  al 
ways  under  the  quietest  Oriental  seeming,  and  that,  en 
kindled  instantly  by  the  tiniest  spark,  transforms  a 
peaceful,  obliging  native  into  a  spitting,  hissing  human 
volcano. 

"You  fool!  You  white-eyed  dodderer,  you  green- 
hatted  goat-man ! ' '  Wu  Li  Chang  barked,  ' '  do  you  think 
I  care  for  your  shiny  barrel  ?  You  English  idiot !  The 
slightest  signal  from  me" — he  pointed  to  the  window — 
"and  those  coolies  would  swarm  in  here  like  so  many 
devils." 

"Yes,  but  you'd  have  gone  to  blazes  first,"  Gregory 
said  grimly,  fhe  revolver  still  well  aimed,  ''to  join  those 
damned  ancestors  of  yours." 

Something  as  terrible  as  the  death-rattle  in  a  mad 
dog's  throat  'angled  and  gurgled  in  "Wu's  and  a  fiendish 
look  leapt  info  his  eyes — they  narrowed  until  they  were 
mere  slits.  IVut  he  recontrolled  himself  almost  instantly 
— angry  still,  but  coldly  so,  and  imperturbable  again.  ' '  I 
would  have  g  me  to  blazes  first  ? ' '  There  were  snarl  and 
sneer  in  the  low-pitched  voice.  "Then  we  should  have 
been  able  to  resume  this  interesting  conversation  else 
where!  Come,  come!  Put  your  toy  back  into  your 
pocket.  If  you  insist  upon  playing  the  play  out  on  these 
lines  (but  I  think  you  will  not),  believe  me,  this  is  not 

203 


204  MR.  WU 

the  stage  for  it.  And  you  know  where  I  live.  You  also, 
I  understand,  broke  and  honored  my  unworthy  bread 
the  other  day.  And  I  am  an  easy  man  to  find. ' ' 

Robert  Gregory  deliberately  pointed  his  revolver  at 
Wu  Li  Chang's  heart,  and  said  as  pointedly,  "Pray  be 
seated,  Mr.  Wu. ' ' 

"Wu  bent  his  head  politely  to  the  pointed  pistol,  as  if 
to  thank  it  for  the  invitation.  "With  pleasure,"  he 
said,  moving  leisurely  back  to  his  chair.  Gregory,  eye 
ing  Wu  stormily,  passed  too  to  his  own  chair.  For  just 
a  fraction  of  a  second  his  back  was  turned  to  Wu;  but 
that  thin  shred  of  time  sufficed  the  Chinese  to  whip  a 
revolver  from  his  pocket,  concealing  it  in  his  hand  and 
in  the  loose  sleeve  of  his  tussore  coat.  Gregory  banged 
down  his  chair,  and,  covered  by  the  ill-humored  noise, 
Wu  clicked  his  revolver  open. 

They  sat  and  faced  each  other  in  ugly  silence,  dislike 
and  defiance  very  differently  expressed,  but  expressed, 
on  each  face.  Even  wider  apart  by  caste  and  by  breed 
ing  than  by  race,  Wu's  tranquillity  was  terrible,  his  quiet 
at  once  a  menace  and  a  taunt,  while  Gregory's  growing 
nervousness  would  have  been  a  little  comical  if  its 
primary  cause  had  not  been  so  pitiful. 

"I  perceive,  Mr.  Gregory,"  Wu  Li  Chang  said  pleas 
antly,  "that  you  still  keep  your  toy  in  your  hand ;  kindly 
cease  holding  it.  I  do  not  fear  it,  but  the  implication 
of  its  presence  is  somewhat  aggressive  and  offensive.  Let 
us  pretend,  at  least,"  he  added  lazily,  "that  we  are 
gentlemen. ' ' 

That  taunt  got  through.  Gregory  winced,  and  after 
a  moment  of  sulky  hesitation  put  the  revolver  on  his  knee 
under  the  desk. 

"Now  then,  Mr.  Wu "  he  began. 

"One  moment,"  Wu  interrupted  him.     "Excuse  my 


SOMETHING  TO  GO  ON  205 

seeming  so  exacting,  but  I  believe  that  revolver  is 
loaded." 

"It  is — in  every  chamber,"  the  other  snapped. 

"Well,"  the  mandarin  spoke  so  indifferently  that  he 
almost  drawled,  but  his  voice  was  honeyed,  "if  we  are 
to  arrive  at  an  amicable  understanding,  I  think  I  should 
prefer,  as  a  matter  of  politeness — we  Chinese  lay  such 
foolish  stress  on  politeness — not  to  feel  that  I  was  dis 
cussing  matters  at  the  cannon 's  mouth,  so  to  speak.  Re 
tain  the  weapon,  by  all  means,  but  be  so  good  as  to  re 
move  the  cartridges." 

Gregory  fidgeted,  hesitating  nervously. 

"Merely  as  a  matter  of  good  faith,"  Wu  urged  con- 
ciliatorily.  "That  weapon  might  go  off,  you  know — by 
pure  accident.  He  stretched  his  hand,  palm  up,  across 
the  desk. 

Gregory  looked  at  the  open  palm  oddly,  embarrassed, 
and  then  looked  round  anxiously  at  the  window.  Then, 
shrugging  his  shoulders  and  trying  to  speak  indifferently, 
"Why  not?"  he  said,  and  lifting  the  pistol,  jerked  it, 
and  the  cartridges  fell  out  onto  the  desk. 

"Thank  you,"  Wu  said  genially.  "That  makes  the 
interesting  conversation  much  more  possible."  He  be 
gan  playing  with  them  lightly,  throwing  and  catching 
them  as  nimble-fingered  boys  do  jackstones ;  and  Gregory 
watched  the  deft,  sinewy  yellow  hand,  fascinated.  ' '  One 
— two — three — four — five — beautifully  made  little  things, 
are  they  not?"  Wu's  voice  was  dove-like.  "Now  we 
can  start  fair.  Pray  continue,  Mr.  Gregory,  from  the 
point  where  you  left  off."  One  yellow  hand  dropped 
nonchalantly  on  to  Wu's  knee  below  the  table,  two  car 
tridges  in  the  subtle  fingers.  "But  please  omit  to  make 
any  further  disrespectful  allusion  to  my  ancestors. ' '  He 
was  leaning  forward  on  the  desk,  both  hands  beneath  it 


206  MR.  WU 

now,  and  the  revolver  had  slipped  from  his  sleeve  "I 
do  not  misunderstand  your  having  made  the  offensive  re 
mark — it  was  a  mere  mark  of  difference  of  caste  and  edu 
cation.  But  do  not  repeat  it/'  he  added  smilingly,  "or  in 
any  way  allude  to  my  ancestors" — the  bullets  were  in 
his  pistol,  and  Gregory  was  putting  his  emptied  weapon 
irritably  into  a  drawer.  "You  were  asking  me,  I  think, 
what  I  knew  about  the  disappearance  of  your  son  and 
of  certain  commercial  catastrophes  which,  I  regret  to 
hear,  have  lately  overtaken  you.  "Well,  I  will  be  per 
fectly  frank  with  you — perfectly  frank,  Mr.  Gregory, 
perfectly  frank.  I  will  conceal  nothing."  The  yellow 
hands  slipped  up  quietly  on  to  the  desk.  "And  the  first 
thing  I  have  to  say  is" — the  barrel  of  the  pistol  thrust 
forward — "look  at  this!" 

Robert  Gregory  sprang  up  with  a  smothered  oath,  and 
his  hand  went  convulsively  towards  the  bell  on  the  desk, 
"Ah,  no!"  Wu  said,  "don't  move,  or  it  might  go  off  by 
pure  accident."  Gregory  shifted  out  of  Wu's  aim  and 
made  a  foolish  furtive  attempt  to  ring.  Wu  covered  him 
instantly,  smiling  still.  "Don't  move,  I  say !  Sit  down ! 
Sit  down,  Gregory ! ' ' 

And  Robert  Gregory  very  slowly  sat  down — obedient 
partly  in  fear,  partly  in  defeat,  and  a  little  in  a  some 
what  hypnotized  subjection  to  a  bigger,  more  skillful 
man.  Then  suddenly  he  pulled  the  drawer  open  to  look 
at  his  own  revolver. 

"  No, "  "Wu  told  him, ' '  not  sleight  of  hand.  This  is  not 
your  revolver,  but  it's  identical " 

"That's  my  son's  revolver.  I  know.  I  gave  it  to  him 
myself.  Now,  damn  you,  I  have  got  something  to  go 
on!" 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

"WILL  You  VISIT  SING  KUNG  YAH?" 

QUITE  right,"  Wu  Li  Chang  said  cordially.  "This 
is — or  was — your  son's  property.  My  servants 
found  it  in  my  garden,  after  your  son  had  left  there.  I 
intended  to  give  myself  pleasure  of  returning  it  to  you  in 
person" — that  was  perfectly  true — "although  I  hardly 
anticipated  doing  so  in  so — humorous  a  manner.  Now 
kindly  ring  your  bell" — his  voice  stiffened  sud 
denly,  still  low  and  easy;  it  had  a  new  percussive  note, 
and  the  words  came  quicker.  "When  it  is  answered, 
merely  say  to  whomever  enters,  'Pray  desire  Mrs.  Gregory 
to  step  this  way.'  Do  nothing  more,  say  nothing  more. 
Because" — the  voice  grew  beautifully  soft  again — "if 
you  should  draw  attention  to  this,  or  anything  of  that 
kind,  my  hand  might  tremble  so  much  with  fear  that  it 
might  go  off,  and  that  would  be  too  ridiculous,  with  one 
of  your  own  cartridges !  Please  ring. ' ' 

At  the  mention  of  his  wife — by  Wu — Robert  Gregory 
drew  himself  up  stiffly.  "What  do  you  want  with  Mrs. 
Gregory  ? ' ' 

' '  I  might  merely  wish  to  show  her  how  foolish  her  hus 
band  has  been  in  trying  to  bully  and  intimidate  me  in 
stead  of  dealing  with  me  reasonably.  But  also  I  have 
a  message  I  have  promised  my  daughter  to  deliver  for 
her  to  your  wife.  Chancing  to  see  Mrs.  Gregory  here 
reminds  me  of  it,  and  it  will  be  more  convenient  to  me 
to  deliver  it  here  than  to  call  at  your  hotel" — Gregory's 
eyes  blazed — "and  possibly  as  agreeable  to  the  lady. 

207 


208  MR.  WU 

Also  I  have  a  message — but  less  important — from 
Madame  Sing,  my  relative."  (Gregory  grunted  curtly.) 
"Eing!" 

"Ring — yourself,"  the  Englishman  at  bay  said  sul 
lenly. 

"That  is  a  liberty  I  would  not  dream  of  taking  in 
another  man's  office.  You'll  ring" — the  revolver's  bar 
rel  repointed  insinuatingly.  "You  will  ring  now,  Mr. 
Gregory. ' ' 

Robert  Gregory  pressed  the  bell  push  on  his  desk  and 
leaned  back  heavily  in  his  chair,  with  an  unhappy  sigh, 
defeated. 

As  Murray  came  in,  Wu  so  moved  his  body  that  the 
clerk  could  not  see  the  little  pistol  which  still  covered 
Gregory.  "Murray,"  his  employer  said  wearily,  "ask 
Mrs.  Gregory  to  step  this  way  a  moment."-  Then  he  be 
gan  breathlessly,  "Ce  sacre  Chinois  me " 

But  Wu  interrupted  with  a  contented  laugh  and, 
"Oh!  this  damned  Chinaman  understands  French  per 
fectly.  And  I've  often  heard  Englishmen  pronounce  it 
very  much  as  you  do.  You  are  a  linguist  too,  Mr.  Mur 
ray?  E'um  dom  util — o  dom  das  linguas — e  de  alto 
valar  em  cidades  cosmopolitans!" 

Poor  Murray  stood  bewildered,  quite  uncertain  what 
to  do.  And  Wu  turned  pleasantly  to  Mr.  Gregory  with, 
' '  Please  repeat  your  instructions,  as  Mr.  Murray  does  not 
seem  to  understand  quite." 

And  Gregory  said  at  once — broken,  defeated — in  a 
whipped  tone  his  clerk  had  never  heard  from  those  thin 
lips  before,  "Please  ask  Mrs.  Gregory  to  come  here." 

And  indeed  the  hard  little  man  was  broken  and  de 
feated,  and  he  knew  it.  The  Chinese  duellist  had  made 
but  little  lunge,  but  with  a  gentleness  more  cruel  than 
any  storm,  and  a  suave  persistence  that  under  such  cir- 


WILL  YOU  VISIT  SING  KUNG  YAH<?      209 

cumstances  no  mere  European  nerve  could  outfight,  he 
had  borne  his  opponent  to  the  knees ;  slowly,  deftly  had 
worn  him  out.  His  method  and  his  touch  had  been — al 
most  consistently — velvet,  but  through  the  velvet  of  the 
fur  that  hid  them,  relentless  claws  had  found  and  torn 
and  jagged  the  English  adversary. 

Robert  Gregory  was  down  and  out. 

"Now,"  Wu  said  in  a  changed  tone,  speaking  briskly 
and  quick,  as  the  door  closed  on  Murray,  "I  will  open 
the  matter  to  Mrs.  Gregory — if  you  please. ' ' 

"What's  your  object  in  wanting  to  humiliate  me  be 
fore  my  wife?"  Gregory  asked  dearily. 

Wu  smiled.  "Merely  a  'Chinaman's'  idea  of — 
humor,  let  us  say."  He  slid  the  Webley  lazily  into  his 
sleeve. 

Florence  Gregory  came  in  eagerly.  Knowing  less  than 
her  husband  did  of  the  mandarin's  important  place  in 
international  finance,  yet  she  had  a  far  clearer  estimate 
of  Wu  Li  Chang's  personal  potency  than  Gregory  had. 
Ah  Wong  had  coached  her — if  only  with  a  hint  or  two — 
and  she  had  her  own  woman 's  instinct,  fine  and  alert. 

Wu  had  risen  instantly,  and  taken  a  courteous  step 
towards  her.  He  paused  as  she  did.  For  a  moment  she 
stood  looking  from  one  man  to  the  other  questioningly, 
and  then  she  fixed  her  anxious  eyes  on  Wu,  and  they 
stood  measuring  each  other  quietly. 

For  once  the  English  eyes  were  the  quicker.  Perhaps 
sex  and  motherhood  combined  outweighed  any  and  every 
superiority  of  race.  Perhaps  he  gave  her  a  much  more 
careless  gaze  than  she  gave  him.  Perhaps  her  exquisite 
anxiety  gave  her  sharper  sight.  At  all  events,  as  they 
looked,  she  almost  recognized  him,  but  he  had  no  such 
experience  concerning  her.  For  a  puzzled  instant  her 
mind  trembled  towards*  "When?  Where?"  and  in  a 


210  MR.  WU 

few  moments,  or  in  less  mental  turbulence,  her  half- 
awakened  memory  might  have  caught  up  a,  broken  thread, 
a  forgotten  acquaintance ;  but  "Wu  spoke,  and  in  the  ten 
sion  of  her  anxiety  the  chance  passed. 

"Mrs.  Gregory,"  Wu  Li  Chang  began,  deferentially 
bowing  and  going  a  little  nearer,  ' '  I  am  sorry  to  be  com 
pelled  to  ask  your  presence,  but,  before  I  explain,  will 
you  take  this  weapon  from  me?  You  see" — he  laughed 
a  little,  lightly — "I  present  it  to  you  with  the  barrel 
toward  my  own  breast — but" — and  this  he  added  with 
quiet  emphasis — ' '  do  not  give  it  to  your  husband. ' '  As 
he  indicated  Gregory  he  gave  him  a  straight  look.  "I 
trust  to  your  honor."  And  he  bowed  again  as  he  held 
the  pistol  out  towards  her. 

She  took  it  wonderingly,  and  held  it  so.  She  was  not 
one  of  the  women  who  have  an  exaggerated  fear  of  wea 
pons,  but  neither  was  she  one  of  those  who  rather  affect 
them.  She  had  never  hunted,  and  she  had  never  prac 
ticed  pistol  shooting  (Hilda  had  done  both).  Ordinarily 
Florence  Gregory  would  have  declined  to  hold  a  revolver. 
But  she  took  this  and  held  it  steadily — puzzled  but  not 
afraid.  She  was  in  an  abject  terror  for  her  boy  that  left 
no  room  for  petty,  personal,  bodily  qualms. 

"What— what  is  all  this?"  she  said  ruefully. 
"Robert,  what  have  you  been  doing?" 

He  sighed  heavily  before  he  answered  her.  "Mr.  Wu 
has  rather  over-reached  me  in — a  little  transaction. ' ' 

"Oh!  pardon,  pardon,"  Wu  protested  pleasantly. 
"You  over-reached  yourself.  May  we  be  seated?"  he 
asked  Florence  Gregory;  and  as  she  sat  down  he  drew 
himself  a  chair  conveniently  towards  her,  and  convenient 
for  an  unimpeded  view  of  Gregory.  "I  called  here  to 
day,"  he  continued  suavely,  "at  your  husband's  invita 
tion,  on  a  matter  of  grave  importance. ' ' 


WILL  YOU  VISIT  SING  KUNG  YAH?      211 

The  woman  leaned  forward  towards  him  quickly,  her 
knotted  at  her  knee.  "Yes — yes — my  son,"  she 
eagerly. 

''What  the  matter  was,"  Wu  went  on  smoothly,  "he 
d'd  not  say.  Of  course,  I  knew  of  your  son's  disappear 
ance — everybody  in  Hong  Kong  knows  that — so  I  fancied 
'/hat  your  husband  wished,  perhaps,  to  ask  me  that  any 
influence  I  might  possess  among  my  countrymen  should 
be  exerted  to  assist  you  in  your  search " 

"Yes — yes,"  she  said,  "if  you  could!" 

"Could!"  Gregory  muttered,  "he  knows  all  about  it." 

' '  To  assist  you  in  your  search, ' '  Wu  repeated  blandly. 
' '  His  reception  of  me,  however,  was  strangely  unlike  that 
of  a  man— asking  a  favor. ' ' 

"Favor!"  Gregory  flamed  out — he  couldn't  help  it — 
' '  I  was  going  to  ask  no  favor,  I  can  tell  you. ' ' 

His  wife  sent  him  a  peremptory  glance,  but  Wu  paid 
him  no  attention,  but  continued : 

"And  in  the  end,  Mrs.  Gregory,  he  presented  a  revol 
ver  at  me,  and  practically  held  me  prisoner. ' ' 

"Yes,"  Gregory  snarled,  "and  by  a  cunning  ruse,  like 
a  man  of  your  crafty  nature " 

Wu  Li  Chang  smiled  deprecatingly.  "Listen  to  him, 
Mrs.  Gregory !  It  is  cunning  of  me  to  endeavor  to  save 
my  own  life.  It  is  not  cunning  of  him  to  beguile  me  here 
under  the  pretext  of " 

' '  Pretext  be  damned ! ' '  Gregory  blustered,  beside  him 
self  now,  rising  and  going  to  the  window.  His  face  was 
twitching.  He  stood  looking  out  at  the  seething  humans 
on  the  dock-side,  but  it  is  doubtful  if  he  saw  them. 

"You  see,"  Wu  said  gently,  "the  strange  means  by 
which  your  husband  seeks  to  enlist  my  help  and  sym 
pathy." 

Florence  Gregory  hung  her  head. 


212  MR.  WU 

"Wu  moved  his  chair  an  inch  towards  hers.  Gregory 
did  not  turn  round  at  the  sound.  The  Chinese  spoke 
lower,  and  the  sympathy  in  his  voice  seemed  very  real, 

"And   all   your   natural   maternal   anxiety "    He 

paused  eloquently,  and  the  mother  looked  up  at  him,  ea 
gerly,  gratefully.  And  in  return  he  gave  her  a  long  di 
rect  look — there  were  respect  and  friendship  in  it.  And 
after  a  moment  she  rose  abruptly  and  went  to  the  window. 

"Robert!" 

He  did  not  answer.  She  touched  his  shoulder.  He 
paid  no  attention.  "Leave  me  to  talk  to  Mr.  Wu! 
Please ! ' '  But  her  tone  was  imperative. 

A  smile,  a  glint  of  triumph,  flickered  across  the 
Chinese's  face.  "You,  Mrs.  Gregory?"  he  said,  just 
stepping  towards  her — he  had  risen  when  she  rose — "that 
would  be  different." 

"He  needs  a  man's  methods  of  dealing  with  him!" 
Gregory  growled,  without  turning. 

"But  they  don't  seem  to  have  been  very  effective  in 
your  hands,  do  they?  Robert,"  she  urged  more  appeal- 
ingly,  "I  want  to  find  my  boy?  Let  me  try — my  way." 

"I'll  send  Ah  "Wong  to  you,"  was  the  grudging  reply, 
and  Robert  Gregory  shuffled  awkwardly  from  the  room. 
He  did  not  even  look  at  Wu  again — and  Wu  barely 
looked  at  him. 

"And  who  is  Ah  Wong,  Mrs.  Gregory?"  Wu  asked 
amiably,  as  the  door  closed. 

"My  servant,"  she  told  him. 

"Your  amah?  But  I  do  not  need  an  interpreter,"  he 
laughed. 

' '  She  rarely  leaves  me. ' ' 

"Who  could?"  he  said  with  a  little  bow. 

Ah  Wong  came  noiselessly  into  the  room. 

"And  now,  Mr.  Wu,"  the  woman  asked  earnestly, 


WILL  YOU  VISIT  SING  KUNG  YAH?      213 

her    voice    low     and    tense,     "will    you    help    us?" 

' '  You,  if  I  can — but — I  am  not  sure  if "  He  broke 

off  and  gave  Mrs.  Gregory  a  little  inquiring  gesture  that 
said,  "Are  you  going  to  let  her  stand  there?"  For  Ah 
"Wong  had  come  steadily  across  the  room  until  she  stood 
quite  at  his  elbow. 

"Wait,  Ah  Wong,"  her  mistress  told  her,  with  a  ges 
ture  of  the  head  towards  the  door.  And  Ah  Wong 
moved  back  as  quietly  as  she  had  come,  and  waited  just 
inside  the  door,  immovable,  expressionless.  But  not  for 
an  instant,  never  once,  did  her  eyes  leave  Wu  Li  Chang. 
A  critic  at  a  "first  night"  could  not  have  watched  and 
listened  more  closely  or  seemed  less  interested. 

Ah  Wong  and  the  mandarin  were  ill  matched,  but  bet 
ter  matched  than  he  and  Eobert  Gregory  had  been. 

Mrs.  Gregory  wasted  no  time  on  preliminaries.  She 
forgot  that  he  was  a  stranger.  That  he  was  man,  she 
woman,  she  forgot  that  she  was  English  and  he  Chinese. 
She  had  but  one  thought,  one  memory — Basil.  "  On !  Mr. 
Wu, ' '  she  pleaded — urged — at  once,  ' '  if  you  can  help  us, 
if  you  could  even  give  us  your  advice  as  to  the  best  way 
of  appealing  to  the  natives  or  of  offering  a  reward " 

"Ah!"  Wu  interjected  gently,  "for  your  sake,  Mrs. 
Gregory — as  his  mother — I  would  do  much. ' '  He  picked 
up  his  hat  and  moved  towards  the  door.  But  Ah  Wong 
did  not  trouble  to  move  from  it — she  knew  that  he  was 
not  going  yet.  But  Florence  Gregory  did  not  know — and 
she  followed  him  a  step.  Wu  bowed  to  her  with  the  ut 
most  courtesy,  and  said — as  if  considering  the  situation — 
"Well,  we  must  meet  again." 

* '  Oh !  I  hope  so,  Mr.  Wu.  But  now — when  every  mo 
ment  is  so  precious ' ' 

"I  am  thinking,  Mrs.  Gregory,  and  I  will  not  waste 
one  of  them,  you  may  trust  me. ' ' 


214  MR-  wu 

'    *• 

"I  do,"  she  said  impulsively. 

Wu  bent  his  head  gratefully — perhaps,  too,  to  veil  a 
smile — "But  I  will  venture  to  take  just  two  of  those 
precious  moments,  to  ask  a  great  favor  of  you. ' ' 

"Oh,  anything!" 

"You  were  visited  yesterday  by  a  lady  of  my  house, 
Madame  Sing,  a  kinswoman  who  has,  since  my  wife's 
death,  taken  a  mother's  part — so  far  as  it  ever  can  be 
taken — to  my  daughter.  Sing  Kung  Yah  suffers  a  great 
humiliation  and  an  intolerable  loneliness " 

"I  was  sorry  I  was  out " 

"And  she  was  grieved  to  find  you  not  at  home.  May 
I  solicit  your  kindness  for  Madame  Sing,  Mrs.  Gregory  ? ' ' 

"Oh — indeed — anything.     But  what  can  I  do  ? " 

"Much,"  Wu  said.  "She  is  ostracized  by  the  ladies 
of  our  race.  I  am  a  powerful  man  among  my  own  peo 
ple,  madame,  but  I  cannot  influence  or  soften  the  preju 
dices  of  Chinese  femininity  in  the  slightest.  Because 
she  is  a  widow,  she  should,  according  to  one  of  the  ab- 
surdest  of  the  many  absurd  canons  of  our  race,  live  in 
seclusion,  sackcloth  and  discomfort.  She  is  a  nice  crea 
ture,  Mrs.  Gregory,  and  she  longs  for  friends.  Will  you 
visit  Sing  Kung  Yah?" 

' '  Oh — of  course — gladly. ' ' 

"It  will  open  many  doors  to  her,  for  Mr.  Gregory's 
wife  is  a  social  power  in  Hong  Kong.  Chinese  doors  we 
are  both  powerless  to  open — in  any  real  sense.  Chinese 
cordiality  I  am  not  rich  enough  to  buy  for  her  or  strong 
enough  to  seize.  But  life  will  be  less  dull  for  her  if  she 
can  sometimes  exchange  visits  with  English  ladies." 

"I  shall  be  so  glad." 

"Soon— perhaps?" 

"Indeed,  yes.  Of  course,  until  this  terrible  anxiety 
is  removed " 


WILL  YOU  VISIT  SING  KUNG  YAH?      215 

"It  would  be  cruel  of  me  to  ask  you  to  come  to 
Kowloon  to  drink  tea  with.  Sing  Kung  Yah.  And  yet 
I  do  ask  it — but  for  your  own  sake  too.  Yes,  if  you 
will  be  so  kind — it  will  delight  Sing — you  shall  be  my 
guest." 

"We  have  been  already,  Mr.  "Wu,"  she  said  a  little 
sadly.  "You  remember  it  was  in  your  house,  or  rather 
in  your  gardens,  that  I  last  saw  my  son.  It  was  there 
he  left  us — and  disappeared  as  completely  as  though 
the  earth  had  swallowed  him  up." 

"And  it  is  from  that  point  that  we  will  begin  our 
investigations — you  and  I — his  mother  and  a  Chinese 
who  is  honored  to  serve  her.  We  will  take  the  thread 
up  from  that  moment — when  you  last  saw  him — from 
that  place — my  own  house." 

"But  you  know  that  he  was  seen  afterwards  here — 
in  Hong  Kong?" 

"I  know  that  it  was  said  so,"  Wu  replied  judicially. 
"It  may,  or  it  may  not,  be  true,  and  we  will  begin  at 
the  beginning — and  end  by  discovering  the  truth.  That 
at  least  I  can  promise  you." 

"Oh!     You  do?"  she  almost  sobbed. 

"I  am  sure  of  it." 

' '  Then  when  may  we  come  ?    If  we  must. ' ' 

"Must,"  the  man  deprecated.  "My  dear  Mrs.  Greg 
ory,  I  employ  no  such  word  where  you  are  concerned. 
I  merely  point  out  to  you,  and  I  hope  as  delicately  as 
possible,  that — aside  from  the  very  real  kindness  your 
visit  would  be  to  a  Chinese  woman  somewhat  pathetically 
placed — that  the — the  circumstances  of  my  visit  here 
this  afternoon  hardly  make  this  a — a  propitious  place — 
indeed,  I  am  sure  you  will  understand  I  am  only  too 
anxious  to  find  myself  outside  this  room — and  to  forget 
— as  far  as  such  things  can  be  forgotten " 


216  MR.  WU 

"Yes — yes!"  Mrs.  Gregory  interjected  contritely,  "I 

do  indeed  understand.     I  am  so  ashamed " 

Wu  waved  that  aside,  and  then  he  broke  out  with 
sudden  feeling — it  was  finely  done;  even  to  Ah  Wong 
it  almost  rang  true — "Why,  I  wonder,  do  some  Euro 
peans — Mr.  Robert  Gregory  and  others — think  God  in 
heaven  came  to  be  guilty  of  making  the  Chinese  race? 
You  come  here  and  reap  the  harvest  of  our  centuries 
of  sowing,  and  affront  us  while  you  fatten  on  our  in 
dustry;  teach  the  foolish  among  us  to  suck  and  smoke 
the  poppy,  and  condemn  us  for  it  while  it  enriches  you ; 
brand  the  vice  'Chinese'  while  you  revenue  India  from 
it — you  treat  us  a  thousand  times  worse  than  the  leech- 
like  fops  of  Venice  treated  the  Jews  they  exploited  and 
plundered — at  least   the  Venetian  cads  were  in  their 
own  country — you  are  in  ours.     I  tell  you,  madame,  a 
Chinese  hath  eyes,  hands,   organs,   dimensions,   senses, 
affections — yes,  affections,  passions — fed  with  the  same 
food,  hurt  with  the  same  weapons,  subject  to  the  same 
diseases,  healed  by  the  same  means,  warmed  and  cooled 
by  the  same  winter  and  summer,  as  you  English  Chris 
tians  are !     If  you  prick  us,  we  bleed.     If  you  tickle  us, 
we  laugh.     If  you  poison  us,  we  die.     If  you  wrong  us, 
shall  we  not  revenge?    For  sufferance  is  not  the  badge 
of  our  great  tribe.     Oh !  forgive  me,  dear  lady, ' '  and  his 
voice  that  had  been  a  shaking  whirlwind  was  regretful, 
soft  and  humble.     "Forgive  me — not  you — I   do  not 
mean  you.    Mrs.  Gregory,"  he  said  with  deep  earnest 
ness,  "I  will  help  you — to  my  utmost,  to  find  your  boy. 
And  I  am  powerful.     But,  Mrs.  Gregory,  I  will  not  help 
your  husband.     Nor  shall  he  have  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  that  I  have  been  instrumental  in  restoring  Mr. 
Basil  Gregory  to  you." 


WILL  YOU  VISIT  SING  KUNG  YAH?      217 

"Oh!  I  do  not  blame  you,"  Basil  Gregory's  mother 
said.  And  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"Thank  you,"  Wu  said  softly.  "I  will  help  you  to 
find  your  son.  I  swear  it.  Trust  me — and  I  shall  not 
fail." 

"I  do." 

Wu  bent  his  head. 

' '  And  try  to  believe  how  much  I  regret  to  seem  petty ; 
but,  really,  Mrs.  Gregory,  frankly,  if  your  husband  and 
I  were  to  meet  again,  even  under  the  restraining  influence 
of  your  presence,  his  strange  animosity,  his  extraordinary 
prejudice  against  me,  and  his  curious  ideas  of  the  lan 
guage  which  a  European  may  use  to  a  Chinese  gentle 
man — if  I  may  so  describe  myself — would,  I  fear,  tempt 
me  to  wash  my  hands  of  the  whole  affair.  In  short,  I 
can  not  again  enter  any  place  that  is  Mr.  Gregory's,  and 
he  has  made  it  impossible  for  me  to  invite  him  to  my 
house  or  to  receive  him  there;  but  if  you  will  so  far 
honor  me,  and  my  kinswoman  Sing  Kung  Yah,  and  my 
daughter — bring  your  amah  with  you"  (he  indicated 
Ah  Wong  with  a  gesture),  "she  has  a  loyal  face,  and 
I  am  sure  you  can  trust  her  not  to  report  your  visit — 
and  indeed,"  he  added  in  a  low  tone,  "she  need  not 
know  how  far  I  aid  you.  But  all  that  I  leave  to  you, 
naturally.  All  I  ask  is  your  promise  that  Mr.  Gregory 
shall  be  ignorant  always  that  your  son  has  been  restored 
to  you  by  a  'damned  Chinaman';  promise  me  that, 
and " 

She  bowed  her  head. 

"I  promise  you  that  it  shall  not  be  my  fault  if  your 
son  is  not  restored  to  you  within  a  few  hours." 

"Then  you  know " 

"I   know  nothing,"   Wu  Li  Chang  said  earnestly, 


218  MR.  WU 

"Mrs.  Gregory,  that  you  yourself  shal^  not  kixow — at 
Kowloon. ' ' 

"When  may  I  come?"  she  begged. 

"To-morrow,  at  four?  I  will  be  entirely  at  your  serv 
ice " 

"To-morrow?"    Her  voice  broke  on  the  word. 

"To-night,  then?"  He  glanced  at  the  clock  consider 
ingly.  "Yes,  the  time  is  short — but  I  think  I  can  con- 
trive  it.  I  will  employ  myself  so  diligently  in  the  mean 
time  that  I  think  I  can  promise  you  that  your  son  shall 
be  brought  into  your  presence  before  you  leave  mine. 
I  cannot  put  in  words  how  much  I  shall  rejoice  to  see 
that  meeting — and  how  proud  to  have  achieved  it. ' '  His 
voice  trembled  at  the  last  words.  And  she  could  scarcely 
command  hers  to  say,  "At  what  hour?" 

"Six,  or  six-thirty?  That  will  give  time  for  the 
visit  to  which  I  shall  so  look  forward — and  my  daughter 
and  her  aunt — and  time  to  permit  you  to  return  while 
it  is  light,  in  time  to  dress  for  dinner." 

"Return— with  Basil?" 

Wu  Li  Chang  smiled  kindly.  "I  believe — with— - 
Basil."  He  spoke  the  name  as  tenderly  as  she  had,  or 
as  Nang  Ping  might  have  done. 

"Oh!  Mr.  Wu!"  the  woman  cried,  and  held  out  to 
him  both  her  hands.  He  took  them  and  bent  over  them 
gravely. 

"Oh!  tell  me,"  she  begged,  her  hands  still  in  his, 
"Mr.  Wu,  do  you  think  he  is  safe  and  well?" 

"I  have  no  doubt  of  it,"  Wu  said  earnestly.  "And 
that  it  is  merely  a  question  of  making  terms  with  those 
who  are  detaining  him.  And  now, ' '  he  said  in  a  bright, 
brisk  tone,  turning  alertly  to  the  door,  and  this  time  Ah 
Wong  drew  aside,  "there  is  so  much  to  do,  and  I  have 


WILL  YOU  VISIT  SING  KUNG  YAH?      219 

put  myself  upon  my  honor  not  to  fail  in  my — promise — 
if  you  do  not  fail " 

"I  fail!"  the  mother  said.  "And  you  promise  that 
I  shall  see  my  boy  to-night?" 

''I  promise!" 

"  Oh ! "  she  went  to  him  impulsively  again  and  held  out 
her  hand.  But  he  seemed  not  to  see  it. 

"Till  six,"  he  said  bowing,  and  was  gone. 

The  woman  sat  down  in  the  nearest  chair  and  began 
to  cry  softly.  Ah  Wong  huddled  over  to  her  quickly 
and  bundled  down  at  her  feet.  "No,  no,"  the  amah 
said,  catching  her  lady's  hand,  clutching  her  dress. 
"No,  no,  mfidame.  Not  go!  Not  go!" 


CHAPTER  XXX 

SMILING  WELCOME 

AGAIN,  as  Wu  Li  Chang  passed  through  the  office 
yards,  the  coolies  almost  groveled  at  his  feet,  and 
this  time  he  threw  a  curt  but  not  unpleasant  word  to 
one  or  two  of  them. 

He  had  been  with  the  Gregorys  some  time,  the  after 
noon  seemed  at  its  hottest,  but  he  was  as  fresh  and  crisp 
as  when  the  close  duel  began ;  and  yet  in  a  more  resilient, 
a  more  stimulated  way,  he  had  felt  the  strain  as  they 
had  not,  for  he  had  known  the  story  of  Basil  and  Nang 
Ping. 

But  "crisp"  and  "fresh"  were  the  last  words  that 
could  be  applied  to  the  shipper  or  his  wife,  or,  for  that 
matter,  to  any  of  their  companions.  Robert  Gregory 
was  having  a  stiff  "peg,"  and  needed  it;  and  Mrs. 
Gregory,  less  unnerved,  was  tired  and  anxious  enough. 
And  Holman  and  his  fellow  faithful  few  were  on  des 
perate  tenterhooks  both  for  their  chief  (he  was  roughly 
lovable  and  not  a  mean  master)  and  for  the  threatened 
business  to  which  they  were  sincerely  and  doggedly  de 
voted. 

Perhaps  Tom  Carruthers  and  Ah  Wong  were  the  two 
Gregoryites  least  unhinged  by  the  day's  fusillade  of 
miscarriage  and  by  its  recurrent  stalemate.  Ah  Wong 
was  anxious,  but  she  had  been  racked  by  no  surprise. 
Of  the  Steamship  Company's  business  she  knew  little— 
and  cared  less.  But,  even  s®,  she  probably  had,  next  to 

220 


SMILING  WELCOME  221 

Wu  Li  Chang,  a  corrector  estimate  of  the  whole  compli 
cated  situation  than  any  one  else.  Bradley  and  Holman 
came  next  in  prescience,  but  neither  of  them  suspected, 
much  less  knew  of,  the  particular  slant  the  diabolism  of 
Wu 's  vengeance  had  taken,  or  of  the  appointment  he  had 
made  with  Basil's  mother. 

Tom  Carruthers  was  "no  end"  sorry,  and  sincerely 
so.  But  he  could  not  quite  help  getting  a  certain  en 
joyment  out  of  it  all.  He  was  built  that  way — and  he 
was  only  twenty-four — and  he  had  come  to  China  to 
have  an  occasional  nibble  at  the  spice  of  things,  almost 
as  much  as  he  had  come  to  master  the  details  of  a  business 
to  which  his  father  had  assigned  him  not  too  sanguinely. 
The  bankruptcy  that  positively  seemed  to  threaten  the 
great  firm  could  not  even  embarrass  him.  His  father 
was  a  very  rich  man  (as  mere  British  wealth  went),  and 
he  himself  an  only  child.  Mr.  Gregory's  wealth  had  not 
in  the  least  added  to  Hilda's  charm  in  Tom  Carruthers' 
eyes. 

But  the  depression  at  the  office  was  growing  torment 
ing,  and  so  was  the  heat,  and  Robert  Gregory's  nervous 
irritability  was  a  bit  trying,  so  when  Hilda  announced 
her  determination  to  "go  home"  Tom  resigned  the  af 
fairs  of  the  business  cheerfully  enough  and  picked  up 
his  hat. 

Hilda  saw  that  she  could  do  nothing  for  her  father 
by  "hanging  round."  And  "hanging  round"  was  an 
occupation  she  particularly  disliked.  And  when  she 
learned  that  her  mother  had  slipped  off  with  Ah  Wong 
without  a  word,  she  said,  ' '  How  shabby ! ' '  and  prepared 
to  follow  suit. 

Robert  Gregory  scarcely  noticed  his  wife's  defalca 
tion — and  certainly  did  not  resent  it.  The  business 
turmoil  did  not  lessen  with  the  lessening  day;  it  in- 


222  MR.   WU 

creased.  His  tired,  unsteadied  hands  were  overflowing 
full,  and  towards  dinner-time  (another  whiskey  and 
soda  had  taken  the  place  of  tea)  he  deputed  Murray  to 
'phone  Mrs.  Gregory  that  he  would  not  be  home  till  very 
late  that  night,  if  at  all.  Hilda  had  answered  the 
'phone,  and  had  said,  "All  right,"  Murray  reported. 
And  Gregory  grunted  an  acknowledgment,  paying  little 
attention,  engrossed  in  other  things. 

Florence  Gregory  was  a  just  and  a  good-humored 
mistress,  not  an  indulgent  one.  And  she  was  in  no  way 
of  the  class  of  women  who  court  or  accept  the  advice  of 
their  servants.  Even  in  the  days  of  her  modest  Oxford 
housekeeping,  when  her  own  youthfulness  and  the  de 
ficiencies  of  the  vicarage  purse  would  have  made  most 
girls  so  placed  peculiarly  vulnerable  to  the  insidious 
encroachment  of  hireling  "I  wills,"  and  "I  won'ts," 
she  had  been  truly  mistress  of  that  manse,  adamant 
towards  would-be  familiarity.  And  that  natural  smooth 
caste  hardness  had  not  softened  under  the  flux  of  travel 
or  the  sunshine  of  affluence.  From  their  first  quarter 
of  an  hour  together  she  had  commanded  distinctly,  and 
Ah  Wong,  without  comment,  had  obeyed.  During  the 
last  week  Mrs.  Gregory  had  leaned  not  a  little  on  her 
amah,  sensing  in  the  Chinese  woman,  who  too  was  a 
mother,  a  something  of  sympathy  that  even  Hilda  could 
not  give  her,  but  she  had  in  no  way  abrogated  any  of 
her  personal  autocracy  to  Ah  Wong  or  let  the  space  of 
discipline  between  them  lessen.  When  Ah  Wong  had 
exclaimed,  "No,  no,  madame !  Not  go !"  the  first  liberty 
Ah  Wong  had  ever  taken,  the  mistress  had  scarcely  heard 
and  had  not  heeded;  but  when,  on  their  return  to  the 
Peak,  the  amah  had  again  urged  "Not  go !"  Mrs.  Greg 
ory  had  checked  her  sternly,  and  Ah  Wong  had  known 
that  it  was  worse  than  useless  to  repeat  the  entreaty. 


SMILING  WELCOME 


223 


To  appeal  to  any  one  else,  against  her  mistress — to  Missee 
Hilda,  to  the  master,  or  even  to  John  Bradley — never 
occurred  to  her.  And  she  submitted  silently,  only 
venturing  a  piteous,  "Me  dome?  Madame  take  Ah 
Wong?" 

"Of  course,"  Mrs.  Gregory  said,  not  unkindly.  "He 
expressly  said  I  should  bring  you." 

That  there  could  be  no  question  between  them  as  to 
who  "He"  was  told  clearly  of  how  Wu  Li  Chang  had 
gripped  the  thought  of  both  these  women,  and  (at  least 
of  one)  had  gripped  also  the  imagination. 

At  five  o'clock — the  hotness  of  the  terrific  day  was 
scarcely  waning  yet,  and  Hilda  and  Torn  in  the  darkened 
sitting-room  were  eating  ices  with  their  tea — Mrs.  Greg 
ory  and  Ah  Wong  went  quietly  out  and  took  the  next  car 
down  the  Peak.  On  the  level  (such  level  as  terraced 
Victoria  City  can  show)  the  amah  hailed  two  rickshaws, 
and  they  bowled  inconspicuously  to  the  water's  edge. 

They  did  not  use  the  ferry.  A  little  boat  was  waiting 
for  them.  Ah  Wong  had  secured  it  by  messenger;  and 
she  took  care  that  the  jinrickshaw  men  should  hear  her 
tell  the  boatmen  where  they  were  to  pole — which  they 
already  knew  perfectly. 

And  then  she  sat  down  at  her  mistress's  feet  and 
waited.  She  had  done  all  she  could. 

The  boat  slipped  slowly  through  the  gurgling  water, 
the  coolies  sing-singing  droningly  as  they  poled  her. 
Neither  of  the  women  spoke  until  the  little  vessel  grated 
against  the  shore.  Ah  Wong  was  strangely  calm,  her 
very  nerves  hushed  but  alert  in  her  lady's  service,  and 
the  Englishwoman  felt  calmer  than  she  had  been  for 
days,  soothed  that  she  was  doing  something  definite  at 
last,  and  not  a  little  confident  in  the  promise  of  Wu  Li 
Chang. 


224  MR.  WU 

She  had  made  a  special  and  somewhat  magnificent 
toilet  for  this  visit,  pathetically  anxious  to  seem  to  pay 
every  honor  to  the  Chinese  lady  for  whose  social  peace 
of  mind  the  mandarin  had  seemed  so  anxious.  Mrs. 
Gregory  was  wearing  more  jewelry  than  she  had  ever 
worn  before  in  the  daytime,  so  thinking  to  do  honor  to 
a  hostess  who  was  of  the  inordinately  jewelry-loving 
Chinese  race.  Even  the  wonderful  bracelet — kept  until 
now  for  functions  of  real  importance — was  hidden  be 
neath  the  laces  of  her  sleeve. 

The  boat  grated  in  the  gritty  earth,  and  Mrs.  Gregory 
looked  up,  glad  to  have  arrived,  confident  of  her  recep- 
tion  and  of  the  wisdom  of  her  visit. 

Wu  Li  Chang  need  not  have  been  at  such  pains  to 
tempt  his  prey  and  to  bait  his  trap.  Convention  did  not 
exist  for  Florence  Gregory  now,  or  fear.  Basil  and 
Basil's  plight  left  her  no  thought,  no  consciousness  of 
lesser  things.  And  she  had  as  little  thought  of  the 
safety  or  danger  of  her  act  as  she  had  of  its  propriety 
or  impropriety.  But  if  she  had  known  her  coming  at 
Wu's  bidding  to  Kowloon  to  be  as  imperilled  as  it  was, 
and  as  Ah  "Wong  sensed  it,  still  she  would  have  come,  as 
unflinchingly,  for  Basil.  Wu  Li  Chang  had  squandered 
inducement  needlessly.  And  he  need  not  have  played 
poor  Sing  Kung  Yah  for  trumps. 

That  widowed  gentlewoman  was  greatly  bewildered 
and  scarcely  less  perturbed.  Never  before  had  she  re 
turned  home  ungreeted  by  Nang  Ping.  And  of  Nang 
Ping  she  could  hear  nothing.  To  all  her  questions  the 
servants  were  deaf.  The  honorable  master  would  tell 
his  honorable  kinslady  all  to  interest  her  in  his  own 
honorable  time.  To  them  he  had  commanded  silence. 

She  could  not  see  Low  Soong;  it  was  forbidden — 
for  a  time.  "Wu  Li  Chang  she  scarcely  saw;  and,  when 


SMILING  WELCOME  225 

she  did,  him  she  dared  not  question.  He  sent  her  to 
call  on  an  English  lady  in  the  Barbarians'  Hotel  on  the 
Peak,  and  she  went,  half  dead  with  embarrassment,  and 
carrying  a  splendid  offering  of  flowers.  The  lady  was 

out — the  mandarin  had  almost  counted  on  that — and 

• 

Sing  Kung  Yah  scudded  back  home,  as  fast  as  she  could 
induce  the  servants  to  carry  her,  and  burned  a  score  of 
"thank-you"  joss-sticks. 

That  she  was  to  receive  that  same  lady  to-day,  and 
at  the  very  gates,  was  a  care,  but  one  that  sat  on  her 
more  lightly.  She  was  at  home  here,  surrounded  by 
her  customary  servants,  and  she  might  know  more  or 
less  what  to  do,  how  to  conduct  herself  in  the  unpre 
cedented  presence  of  a  foreign  guest.  And  she  was 
thinking  of  Nang  Ping  far  more  than  of  her  own  ap 
proaching  social  ordeal,  as  she  sat  in  her  own  apartment 
eating  perfumed  ginger  and  quails  dressed  with  sour 
clotted  cream,  and  waiting  for  the  summons  to  the  gate. 

Both  were  very  good:  the  ginger  embedded  in  jelly- 
of-rose  leaves,  and  the  hot,  hot  quail  smothered  in  thick 
ice-cold  sauce.  She  was  very  nervous,  but  somewhat 
phlegmatically  resigned,  plying  her  delicate  chop-sticks 
industriously,  now  in  the  deep  blue  and  white  Nankin- 
ware  jar  of  fragrant  confiture,  now  in  the  silver  dish 
where  the  sizzling,  savory  quail  was  too  hot  to  be  cooled 
by  the  icy  cream,  the  sour  cream  too  cold  to  be  luke- 
warmed  by  the  quail. 

Just  at  six  her  summons  came.  She  sighed  a  little, 
gulped  down  a  tiny  bowlful  of  bright  green  tea,  and 
toddled  off  almost  confidently  to  play  hostess  to  the  lady 
of  the  mandarin's  latest  whim,  a  little  at  a  loss  for  her 
self,  but  happily  and  proudly  confident  that  Wu  Li 
Chang  could  do  no  wrong,  much  less  blunder,  and 
toddling  fantastically  because  her  feet  were  very  small 


226  MR.  WU 

— Sing  Kung  Yah  had  no  claim  to  Manchu  blood,  had 
had  no  traveled  eccentric  for  a  father  and  lord,  and  so, 
unlike  Nang  Ping,  her  feet  had  been  well  bound.  Be 
cause  she  was  a  widow  she  used  no  cosmetics.  But  her 
clothes  could  not  have  been  gayer :  she  was  gorgeous. 

She  was  standing  smiling  at  the  gate,  servants  on 
either  side,  when  the  Englishwoman  reached  it.  And 
when  Mrs.  Gregory  held  out  her  hand  she  took  it  warmly, 
giggled  and  held  it  to  her  cheek,  said  a  gurgling  some 
thing  that  sounded  Italian  but  wasn't,  and  drew  her 
guest  along  the  path  to  Wu  Li  Chang's  threshold. 

The  two  women  went  hand  in  hand,  and  Ah  Wong 
walked  close  behind,  carrying  a  tortoise-shell  card- 
case  in  her  hand.  If  anxiety  and  torture  had  made 
Basil's  mother  oblivious  of  conventions  as  they  affected 
herself,  they  made  her  acutely  careful  to  avoid  every 
possible  giving  of  offense  and  appearance  of  slight. 
And  she  would  not  forget  to  leave  three  cards,  of  her 
own  and  Hilda's,  one  for  each  of  the  ladies  of  Wu's 
household. 

Her  reception  encouraged  her.  This  little  creature 
was  very  friendly,  and  it  was  nice  of  Mr.  Wu  to  have 
stationed  her  at  the  gate,  for  he  was  master  of  the 
smallest  details  here,  she  made  no  doubt  of  that.  She 
wondered  at  what  point  Miss  Wu  would  appear,  and  the 
funny,  pigeon-plump  cousin. 

They  went  along  the  tortuous  paths,  through  the 
lovely,  elaborate  gardens  (not  Nang  Ping's  garden), 
hand  in  hand  up  to  the  very  door,  and  Sing  Kung  Yah 
chatted  incessantly  in  her  pretty,  musical  mandarin 
Chinese,  and  the  guest  said  an  amiable  word  now  and 
then.  Neither  understood  a  word  the  other  said,  or  ever 
could,  and  Sing  Kung  Yah  thought  that  screamingly 
funny — and  screamed  with  high-pitched,  tinkly  laughter. 


SMILING  WELCOME  227 

The  sun  was  brilliant  still.  Flowers  leaned  with 
friendly  welcome  from  every  ledge  and  corner.  How 
perfectly  absurd  Ah  Wong  had  been ! 

And  Ah  "Wong  kept  closer  and  closer,  growing  more 
terrified  every  moment. 

At  the  door  Sing  Kung  Yah  slid  her  hand  gently 
away,  and,  toddling  back  a  step,  gestured  laughing  that 
Mrs.  Gregory  was  to  go  in  first. 

When  the  door  had  closed  again,  the  guest  was  sur 
prised  to  find  that  the  hostess  had  stayed  outside.  On 
what  "Martha"  errand  had  the  little  housewife  thought 
it  necessary  to  go  herself,  in  this  household  overflowing 
with  servants?  But  she  was  not  altogether  sorry.  It 
was  the  mandarin  she  wished  to  see — to  hear  what  his 
success  had  been.  Perhaps  it  was  his  kindness  that 
had  arranged  it  so.  But  she  must  not  forget  to  ask  the 
Wu  ladies  to  lunch,  and,  above  all,  she  must  remember 
to  leave  cards.  The  Chinese  set  such  store  on  such 
things. 

She  caught  her  breath.  The  servant  who  was  con 
ducting  her  paused  at  a  door.  Probably  she  would  see 
the  mandarin  now. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

FACE  TO  FACE 

IT  was  four  when  Wu  Li  Chang  reached  Kowloon  and 
his  own  home.  Barely  two  hours  in  which  to  arrange 
the  details,  the  scenic  background,  of  the  last  act  of  the 
tragedy — the  exquisitely  horrible  details  of  his  revenge. 
But  it  was  time  enough,  for  he  had  planned  it  all  down 
to  the  smallest  point  as  he  sat  with  Nang  Ping  dead  at 
his  feet.  A  few  moments  would  suffice  for  the  orders 
he  had  still  to  give  Ah  Sing,  and  upon  the  implicit 
obedience  of  his  servants  he  could  depend  absolutely. 

He  bathed,  dressed  in  the  garments  of  his  country, 
took  rice,  spoke  briefly  to  Ah  Sing,  then  sent  for  Sing 
Kung  Yah  and  coached  that  surprised  and  flustered  lady 
in  the  part  she  was  to  play  in  the  events  of  the  after 
noon.  She  was  not  a  particularly  skillful  or  astute 
coadjutor — indeed,  for  a  Chinese  woman,  she  was  dull, 
inept  and  dense ;  but  for  seventeen  years  it  had  been  her 
invariable  habit  to  give  him  minute  obedience,  and  the 
habit  would  stand  her  in  good  stead  to-day.  And,  too, 
she  had,  of  course,  a  Chinese  memory — the  most  won 
derful  memory  bestowed  on  any  race.  He  had  little  fear 
of  Sing  Kung  Yah,  and,  for  that  matter,  the  role  he  had 
assigned  to  her  was  but  that  of  a  well-dressed  super 
numerary  with  a  few  unimportant  lines  to  speak.  She 
was  not  essential  to  the  movement  of  the  piece,  and  her 
role  might  well  enough  have  been  "cut"  from  the  cast, 

but  with  the  evil  seething  at  his  heart  all  the  native  artist 

228 


FACE  TO  FACE  229 

in  him  was  aflame.  He  intended  to  carve  his  victims 
delicately — a  dish  for  the  gods.  On  the  terrible  altar  of 
his  hatred,  yes,  and  of  his  just  resentment,  he  would  lay 
an  English  woman  who  had  never  wronged  him  and  an 

English  son  who .  But  he  intended  it  all  to  be  done 

as  exquisitely  as  some  finest  ivory  carving  cut  by  a 
master  Chinese  hand. 

When  he  had  dismissed  Sing  Kung  Yah  he  went  into 
his  study  and  waited. 

It  was  the  room  in  which  perhaps  he  had  lived  most. 
It  was  here  he  studied ;  and  in  the  many  long  hours  of 
leisure  which  he  always  relentlessly  kept  for  himself, 
Wu  Li  Chang  was  a  devoted  student.  It  was  here  he 
wrote;  and  "Wu  was  an  author  of  some  distinction  in 
the  current  literature  of  China — the  land  in  which  a 
genuine  love  of  letters  counts  as  nothing  else  does,  a 
fine  skill  in  literature  is  respected  as  no  other  human 
quality  is.  There  were  poems  to  his  credit  in  the  Im 
perial  library  at  the  pink-walled  palace  in  Pekin,  a  book 
of  philosophy,  a  comedy,  and  a  history  of  the  women  of 
his  house.  And  he  contributed  almost  regularly  to  the 
Pekin  Gazette  and  at  long  intervals  to  Le  Journal 
Asiatique — in  French,  of  course. 

The  hour-glass — he  had  turned  it  when  Sing  Kung 
Yah  had  left  him — was  running  down ;  almost  was  run. 

Wu  rose,  and  stood  looking  out  into  his  garden,  say- 
Ing  good-night  to  it  something  as  Nang  Ping  had  said 
"good-by"  to  hers  four  mornings  ago — saying  good 
night,  for  it  would  be  dark  when  Mrs.  Gregory  left  him. 

He  had  no  doubt  that  she  would  come. 

He  turned  from  the  window,  and  walked  gravely  into 
the  next  room,  where  he  intended — in  less  than  an  hour 
now — to  receive  his  guest. 

It  was  a  curious  room:    Chinese,  but  with  some  dif- 


230  MR.  WU 

f erences  from  other  Chinese  rooms.  For  this  man  dared 
to  tamper  with  custom  when  it  suited  his  convenience, 
and  to  modify  an  architecture  that  had  been  unaltered 
almost  since  Kublai  Khan  ordered  every  grave  in  China 
to  be  plowed  up  remorselessly,  and  so  made  room  for 
homes  and  crops  for  the  living,  till  then  out-crowded  by 
the  honorable  dead. 

This  was  a  very  beautiful  room,  and  so  richly  fur 
nished  that  its  opulence  must  have  been  oppressive  had 
it  been  less  beautiful,  its  taste  less  distinguished. 

Essentially  and  strikingly  like  Nang  Ping's  room,  un. 
like  hers  it  was  not  so  exclusively  Chinese,  and  it  was 
more  nearly  crowded.  The  Chinese — like  all  Orientals 
— are  fantastic  collectors,  even  of  European  flotsam  and 
jetsam,  though  more  discriminatingly  so  than  the  Turk, 
the  Indian,  or  the  Japanese.  In  the  remotest  yamen  in 
Honan  or  Kwei  Chau  you  may  find  a  Dresden  vase,  a 
music-box  from  Geneva,  a  silver  dish  from  Regent  Street, 
and — most  probably  of  all — half  a  dozen  clocks,  made 
anywhere  from  Newhaven,  Connecticut  to  Novgorod, 
and  all  ticking  away  together,  but  quite  independently, 
and  all  giving  a  different  lie  to  the  old  dial  in  the  sunny 
Chinese  garden.  (There  were  eighty-five  clocks — and  all 
"going" — in  one  of  the  Pekin  throne-rooms.)  But  you 
are  not  apt  to  find,  except  in  the  poorer  quarters  of  the 
treaty  ports,  the  gimcrack  chandeliers  and  tawdry  vases, 
Europe-made,  which  will  astonish  and  shame  you  in  a 
palace  in  Patialla  or  Kashmere. 

Wu  had  collected  in  princely  fashion  during  his  years 
in  Europe.  There  was  a  Venetian  harp,  a  German 
grand  piano,  and  an  English  organ  in  an  adjacent  music- 
room.  And  in  this,  the  smaller  of  his  own  reception 
rooms,  there  were  several  European  treasures.  Unlike 
most  Chinese  rooms,  this  was  carpeted,  not  with  one  of 


FACE  TO  FACE  231 

the  beautiful  native  carpets,  but  with  a  great  mat  of  silk 
and  mellow  splendor — Constantinople  was  the  poorer 
since  Wu  had  purchased  it. 

It  was  an  octagonal  room — perhaps  the  only  one  in 
China — and  when  all  the  sliding  panels  were  closed  its 
only  ventilation  came  from  a  small  window  or  opening 
high  up  against  the  ceiling.  The  panels  were  made  to 
slide  back  or  up,  and  out  of  sight ;  each  was  in  the  center 
of  one  of  the  apartment's  eight  walls,  and  cut  into  about 
half  of  the  wall's  width.  The  widest  panel  was  open 
wide,  and  through  it  "Wu  could  see  his  garden,  with  all 
its  pretty  architecture  of  pagoda,  bridge,  pavilion  and 
"tinkly  temple  bells,"  all  its  lush  and  flush  of  flowers, 
all  its  affected  labyrinth  of  yellow  path  and  costly 
forests  of  dwarf  trees,  and,  beyond  the  garden,  the  bay, 
terraced  Hong  Kong,  the  imperial  Chinese  sky. 

The  room  was  furnished  in  ebony,  as  costly  and  as 
carved  as  ebony  could  be  made.  There  were  no  chairs, 
but  several  stools.  A  stool  stood  on  each  side  of  the 
moderately-sized  square  table,  behind  which  stood  the 
most  noticeable  article  in  the  room — the  huge  bronze 
gong,  swinging  in  a  frame  of  chiselled  ebony  lace  and 
silver  and  onyx,  which  no  hand  but  the  mandarin's 
ever  struck. 

There  were  several  cabinets,  Chinese  masterpieces, 
holding  china  and  bric-a-brac,  chiefly  Chinese  and  all 
priceless. 

Chinese  antiquities  of  every  description  were  on  the 
walls  and  on  narrow  tables  against  the  walls — bronze 
from  Soochow,  porcelain  from  Kinteching,  cornelians 
from  Luchow  cut  into  gods  and  reptiles,  jades  from  the 
quarries  of  Central  Asia,  bowls,  weapons,  vases,  statues, 
armor,  a  piece  of  Satsuma  that  Yeddo  could  not  match. 

There  were  two  scrolls  inscribed  with  lofty  sentiments- 


232  MR.  WU 

Tze-Shi  herself  had  brushed  one,  and  Kwang-Hsu  had 
given  it  to  Wu  with  his  yellow- jacket.  Aside  from  its 
imperial  association  it  was  very  beautiful — even  a 
European  could  see  that,  and  Bradley  had  spent  much 
covetous  time  gazing  on  it — for  in  all  China,  where  the 
cult  of  "handwriting"  is  an  obsession,  no  one  has  ever 
written  more  beautifully  than  her  majesty.  The  other 
said  in  the  original  Arabic,  "Es-salam  aleika."  (John 
Bradley  had  another  verse  from  the  same  Sura  over  his 
bed.) 

And,  as  in  Nang  Ping's  room,  there  was  just  one 
picture — this  one  a  bird  perched  on  a  spray  of  azalea 
painted  by  Ting  Yiich'uan. 

Wu  prostrated  himself  before  the  altar  which  pro 
claimed  the  owner's  importance.  He  had  come  here  to 
do  worse  than  butchery,  but  to  do  it  as  a  priest — to  sacri 
fice  to  his  gods  and  to  his  ancestors,  to-  scourge  in  their 
service  a  woman  who  had  never  injured  him  or  them, 
as  much  as  to  scourge  a  man  who  had ;  but  he  had  voca 
tion  in  his  heart  rather  than  personal  vengeance — and 
such  is  Chinese  justice. 

Fantastic— is  it  not? — the  Chinese  code  that  ennobles 
and  flagellates  the  dead  ancestors  and  the  living  kindred 
in  punishment  of  the  raw  present  sin!  And  yet,  even 
for  it,  there  is  a  poor,  feeble  something  to  be  said.  We 
dig  down  into  the  earth  and  uproot  the  diseased  tree, 
burn  it  all,  search  out  and  burn,  too,  its  suckers  and  its 
saplings  lest  all  our  orchard  suffer  worm-breeding 
blight. 

From  an  alabaster  box,  gold-lined,  he  took  a  handful 
of  yellow  powder,  dribbled  it  into  the  tiny  saucer  of 
sacred  oil  burning  before  the  tablet,  and  as  the  pungent 
blue  flames  hissed  up,  prostrated  himself  again,  and 
knelt  for  a  long  time — in  prayer. 


FACE  TO  FACE  233 

When  he  rose  Ah  Sing  had  entered,  and  stood  waiting 
to  say,  ' '  Your  honorable  instructions  have  been  obeyed. ' ' 

"Good,"  Wu  said  grimly,  throwing  more  powder, 
from  a  different  box,  on  to  the  votive  oil.  A  thin  smoke 
curled  up,  thickening  as  it  rose  into  perfumed  clouds 
that  broke  in  waves  of  jade  hues  until  all  the  room  was 
a  glow  of  green. 

"Bring  him  now!"  the  mandarin  said,  seating  him 
self  beside  the  table  and  waiting  with  an  expressionless 
face. 

Ah  Sing  said  something  to  a  servant  waiting  outside 
the  door  through  which  he  had  come,  and  presently  feet 
came  along  the  passage.  They  were  bringing  Basil 
Gregory  to  Wu  Li  Chang. 

They  had  not  met  or  exchanged  a  message  since  Wu 
had  bent  and  gathered  up  Nang  Ping  where  she  had 
swooned  at  Basil's  feet.  Since  then  no  slightest  mes 
sage  from  the  outer  world  had  reached  the  prisoner  in 
the  pagoda.  Wu's  servants  had  brought  him  food,  and, 
on  the  second!  night,  even  a  rug;  but  not  once  had  they 
spoken  to  him  or  appeared  to  hear  what  he  said  to  them. 

The  hours  in  the  pagoda  had  marked  him.  And — 
why  not?  Those  other  hours  there  had  marked  Nang 
Ping  down  to  doom.  The  man  does  not  go  scot-free. 
Never!  Tha';  is  immemorial  fallacy.  Nature  would  be 
full-moon  ma  ft  if  that  were  so — and  nature  is  very  wise 
and  sane,  as  wise  as  she  is  old.  The  partners  foot  the 
bill  both — always.  Nang  Ping  had  paid  her  share. 
Now  he  was  paying  his. 

He  looked  ill  and  haggard,  and  his  wrists  were  bound 
together.  Two  Chinese  servants  stood  guarding  him, 
close  on  either  side.  Almost  at  the  threshold  Ah  Sing 
halted  the  three. 

Basil  Gregory  had  no  doubt  that  he  was  about  to  die 


234  MR.  WU 

and  little  hope  that  he  would  not  be  tortured  first.  And 
the  horrors  of  Chinese  tortures  lose  little  hideousness  in 
the  telling  at  English  clubs  in  China.  Basil  was  abjectly 
tormented. 

The  mandarin  sat  and  studied  his  prisoner  curiously. 
His  lip  curled,  and  his  soul.  "What  had  his  daughter, 
bred  for  centuries  from  China's  best  and  finest,  de 
scended  from  Wu  Sankwei  and  from  the  two  supreme 
Sages,  and  who  might  well  have  made  an  Imperial  mar* 
riage,  seen  in  this?  He  had  known  such  slight  men  by 
the  dozens  and  twenties  at  Oxford,  scant-minded,  un 
cultured,  clad  like  popinjays ;  and  for  this — this  English 
nothing,  this  manling  thing  too  slight  for  "Wu  Li  Chang's 
hate,  almost  unworth  his  crushing — she  had  made  the 
father  that  had  adored  and  cherished  her  grandsire  to  a 
mongrel  of  shame.  The  pain  at  "Wu  Li  Chang's  heart 
was  greater  and  gnawed  sharper  than  that  at  Basil 
Gregory's.  The  Chinese  was  the  bigger  man,  and  paid 
the  bigger  penalty. 

And  Nang  Ping  had  died  for  this:  degraded  herself 
beneath  Chinese  forgiveness,  beyond  pity,  for  this:  dis 
graced  him,  her  father,  and  the  great  ancestry  of  a 
thousand  years  for  this!  This! — and  she  might  have 
been  the  bride  of  a  man! — loved  as  he  had  loved  her 
mother,  cherished  as  he  had  cherished  Wu  Lu — and  the 
mother  of  sons,  honorable,  love-begotten  Chinese  sons ! 

Almost  Wu  Li  Chang's  Chinese  imperturbability 
cracked  under  his  strain.  His  sorrow  and  his  rage 
panted  in  his  throat,  battled,  almost  squealed  aloud. 
But  he  was  master  yet  a  little,  and  he  said  smoothly, 
"Well,  are  your  thumbs  more  comfortable?" 

"If  I  were  only  free,  I'd  throttle  you."  Basil  said  it, 
of  course,  to  cover  his  own  terror — but,  too,  he  meant  it. 


FACE  TO  FACE  235 

He  was  insanely  angry  with.  Wu.  The  offender  rarely 
forgives ! 

"The  heated  language  of  youth!"  the  mandarin  said 
with  contemptuous  patronage.  ' '  But  I  will  be  indulgent. 
You  will  admit,  I  think,  that,  so  far,  you  have  been  dealt 
with  leniently — considering  the  resourcefulness  usually 
attributed  to  us  in  the  matter  of  ingenious  torture. ' ' 

"I  presume  you  nave  not  yet  exhausted  your  in 
genuity,"  Gregory  said  with  sullen,  trembling  lips. 

"By  no  means,"  was  the  bland  reply. 

"And  that  is  why  I  am  brought  here;  I  supposed 
so." 

"Partly,"  the  Chinese  replied  coldly;  "also  to  prepare 
you  for  a  shock." 

"Death" — Basil  tried  to  say  it  stoically.  And,  too, 
since  it  was  to  come,  it  would  almost  be  welcome  in 
place  of  such  suspense. 

"Nothing  so  pleasant,"  Wu  replied. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

"CUB!" 

NOTHING  so  pleasant" — and  the  perfect  placidity 
of  his  voice  was  more  cruel  than  any  outburst 
could  have  been. 

"Well,"  the  other  said  desperately,  "but  there'll  be 
a  reckoning  for  all  this — my  father " 

"Not  necessarily,  my  young  seducer,"  the  Chinese 
said  softly.  "Your  father  I  do  not  regard  as  a  man  at 
all  formidable.  I  had  a  most  interesting  interview  with 
him — to-day.  And  I  formed  a  low  opinion  of  his  abili 
ties.  There  is  a  positive  hue  and  cry  after  you,  of  course 
— almost  a  paper-chase.  The  walls  of  Hong  Kong  city 
are  plastered  with  your  portrait,  and  even  here,  on  the 
mainland,  it  is  to  be  seen.  It  is  a  very  nice  portrait,  too 
— the  nice  likeness  of  a  nice  English — gentleman — the 
portrait  of  a  very  handsome  young — seducer."  Wu  Li 
Chang  was  not  quite  his  own  master  now.  The  storm 
was  rising,  threatening  his  own  insolent  calm.  He  rose 
and  moved  a  little  up  and  down  the  carpet — quietly 
but  stealthily,  as  hungry-for-flesh  and  thirstily-dry-for- 
blood  cats  move  through  the  jungle  in  the  night. 

His  last  word  cut  Basil  Gregory.  Wu  was  behaving 
like  the  yellow  dog  he  was;  but  he — Basil — was  not  en 
tirely  blameless:  he  had  said  as  much  to  himself,  alone 
in  the  pagoda — that  cursed  pagoda.  Oh,  well! 

"Your  daughter  loved  me,"  he  began.  And  at  a 
something  manlier  in  his  tone  than  Wu  Li  Chang  had 

236 


"CUR!"  237 

expected  to  hear,  Wu  paused  still  and  met  the  English 
eyes  squarely.  "We  are  both  young."  And  after  a 
pause,  so  throbbing  that  even  the  three  automaton  serv 
ants  must  have  felt  it  beat,  he  added  slowly,  "Except 
that  the  two  races  don't  mingle,  I  would " 

"Marry  her?"  Wu  interrupted  haughtily. 

"Yes,"  Gregory  replied,  as  if  proclaiming  a  deter 
mination  and  a  promise.  "Yes — if  she  still  wishes  it." 

"A  very  interesting  suggestion,"  Wu  sneered.  "In 
your  country,  when  a  woman  has  been  dishonored,  mar 
riage  is  called  'making  an  honest  woman  of  her.'  It 
is  a  quaint  notion.  To  me  it  seems  a  nasty  one — plaster 
ing  some  putrid  sore  with  gold-leaf!  Here  we  have 
other  methods.  To  us  a  woman's  honor,  once  stained, 
no  more  can  be  clean  again  than  the  petals  of  a  rose, 
torn  and  scattered  by  the  storm,  can  be  gathered  back 
into  their  opening  bud  to  perfume  the  dawn  and  glisten 
with  its  dew.  If  marriage,  and  with  such  as  you,  would 
redeem  the  honor  of  a  ruined  girl,  what  would  redeem 
the  honor  of  a  father  and  a  house  so  desecrated  as  mine  ? 
Nothing!  And  nothing  is  left  me  but  to  avenge.  And 
I  avenge  it  now."  He  turned  and  confronted  the  trem 
bling  wretch  with  a  look  before  which  a  braver  and  a  less 
guilt-stained  man  might  well  have  quailed,  and  each 
word  curled  and  hissed  from  his  mouth  like  a  snake. 

Basil  moistened  his  lips,  tried  to  speak,  but  failed. 

"However,"  Wu  continued,  "I  was  going  to  say  that 
although  your  disappearance  has  become  a  matter  of 
public  advertisement,  yet  the  last  place  where  you  are 
looked  for  happens  to  be  your  present,  if  temporary, 
abode.  I  say  'temporary'  because  in  this  life  everything 
is  temporary — even  life  itself.  You  might  be  buried 
here — though  I  don't  say  you  will  be — without  any  one 
being  the  wiser  outside  my  own  household.  At  one  word 


238  MR.  WU 

from  me  you  would  be  taken  and  crucified  beside  the 
pagoda,  and  left  there  until  the  carrion  birds  came  and 
plucked  your  vitals  out,  and  your  eyes,  and  no  one  would 
suspect,  or,  if  they  suspected,  dare  make  a  move.  Your 
people  at  your  Government  House!  They  could  do 
nothing.  My  Government  would  dare  do  nothing,  even 
if  they  wished  to,  for  in  an  hour  I  could  pull  half  China 
tumbling  down  about  their  ears.  By  the  way,  your  fa 
ther  is  a  ruined  man  to-day.  His  ships  are  sinking,  his 
credit  gone.  In  China  we  punish  parents  for  their  chil 
dren's  sin — and  our  gods  have  punished  Robert  Gregory 
for  yours  and  for  his  own :  his  own  sin  in  having  begotten 
such  a  thing  as  you,  and  his  daily  sin  of  impertinence 
to  my  countrymen.  Well,  my  virtuous  young  English 
gentleman,  our  interview  is  drawing  to  its  close.  What 
is  it  that  you  wish  to  say — if  your  quivering  nerves  will 
let  you  speak?" 

"If" — Basil  Gregory  spoke  humbly  enough  now — "if 
you  would  grant  me  one  favor." 

Wu  Li  Chang  laughed  aloud.  "Optimist!"  he 
sneered.  "Well?" 

"That — that  before  anything" — his  voice  shook,  and 
the  words  were  not  very  clear — "anything  happens  to 
me,  you  will  let  me  write  a  letter  to  my  mother. ' ' 

' '  To  your  mother  ? ' '  Wu  said  softly.  But  his  triumph 
leapt  in  his  veins. 

"To  my  mother!  I — I  ~beg  you  that  one  thing.  It 
would  not  mention  this  place  or  your  name,  of  course ' '— * 
Wu  laughed — "but,"  the  tortured  man  went  on,  "but 

if  you  would  see  that  it  reached  her "     There  was  a 

sob  in  his  voice. 

"And — so  you  would  like  to  write  to  your  mother?" 

"Oh!"  Basil  Gregory  cried,  "double  the  torture  yon 
have  planned,  but  let  me  write  to  my  mother." 


"CUR!"  239 

"This  is  very  interesting,"  the  mandarin  said,  sitting 
down  again.  "Very  interesting — very.  As  for  the  tor 
ture  I  am  preparing  for  you,  I  shall  not  increase  it,  be 
cause  it  cannot  be  increased.  Largest  cannot  be  en 
larged.  To  the  utmost  one  cannot  add.  So, "  he  laughed 
softly,  "you  wish  very  much  to  write  to  your  mother — a 
virtuous  lady  who  bore  a  son  in  wedlock ! ' ' 

Basil  Gregory  dropped  his  head.  He  could  no  longer 
meet  the  eyes  of  the  father  of  Nang  Ping. 

"I  suppose  you  would  scarcely  credit,"  the  Chinese 
voice  went  on  softly,  "that  my  consideration  for  you 
had  gone  even  beyond  that?  Would  you  like — not  to 
write  to  your  mother — but  to  see  her  ? ' ' 

"See  her!" 

"Because  you  shall." 

"See  her!"  Basil  cried,  trembling  as  he  had  not 
trembled  before.  "  Oh !  Mr.  Wu ! " 

"Yes,"  Wu  said  slowly  (and  it  says  something  of 
him  and  of  his  race  that  it  did  not  occur  to  the  other  to 
doubt  him — nor  would  have  occurred  to  any  one),  "you 
shall.  And  you  shall  see  her  soon.  You  may  even  go 
home  with  her  this  very  evening  and  sail  for  Europe 
next  week.  It  is  quite  possible."  He  spoke  with  quiet 
emphasis. 

"Mr.  Wu!"  the  blanched  face  was  twitching  hide 
ously,  "oh !  I  would  do  anything ! ' '  The  frightened  eyes 
leapt  and  burned.  Gregory's  revulsion  was  terrible — 
the  great  revulsion  of  reprieve,  or  nightmare  torture  past 
and  gone,  the  revulsion  of  a  starving  man  at  sudden  meat 
and  plenty,  of  one  dying  of  thirst  who  finds  a  brimming 
mountain-pool  cool  to  his  reach,  of  the  mother  who 
from  hours  of  agony  slips  towards  sleep  with  the  warm 
velvet  of  her  baby  snuggled  to  her  breast.  He  took  one 
eager  step  forward,  and  so  far  the  men  beside  him  let 


240  MR.  WU 

him  go,  and  Ah  Sing  made  no  sign.  "If  you  would  give 

me  your  daughter "  he  said  earnestly,  but  at  a  look 

from  Wu  he  paused. 

"Give  you  my  daughter?"  Wu  Li  Chang  said  ter 
ribly.  He  rose  and  crossed  to  Gregory  and  stood  before 
him — very  near.  ' '  I  have  no  daughter, ' '  he  said  gravely, 
and  his  meaning  was  unmistakable,  "to  give  you  or  any 
man!" 

The  pinioned  man  recoiled  with  a  sob.  "Oh!  my 
God!"  he  cried  under  his  breath.  And  he  knew  himself 
for  the  murderer  of  a  girl  who  had  given  him — all — and 
a  child.  And  his  own  soul  rose  against  him,  and  cursed 
him,  and  called  him  "Cur!" 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 
A  CHINESE  TEACHING 

THERE  was  terrible  silence  between  them.    Great 
puffs  of  sweet  smell  came  in  at  the  window  where 
the  headheavy  wistaria  hung  and  the  lemon  verbena 
crowded  at  its  gnarled  roots,  and  bursts  of  sweet  sound 
from  birds  singing  in  the  sun. 

They  looked  at  each  other,  weighing  each  the  other — 
the  man  who  had  given  Nang  Ping  life  and  the  man  who 
had  given  her  shame. 

They  each  had  given  her  death:  one  in  guilt,  one  in 
love. 

Basil  Gregory  looked  into  Wu's  eyes  and  could  not 
look  away — fascinated,  horror-held. 

Wu  looked  his  fill,  then  turned  away  and  went  slowly 
to  the  shrine. 

Again  he  put  the  pungent  votive  powders  to  the  flame, 
and  all  the  room  quivered  with  deeply  opalescent  lights, 
and  the  odors  of  the  garden  were  as  naught. 

The  mandarin  bent  his  head  to  the  tablet,  and  walked 
away  from  the  shrine,  speaking  in  a  changed  tone — quite 
lightly. 

"But  I  was  speaking  of  your  mother.  I  am  expecting 
her  here." 

' '  Expecting  her !     Here  ? ' ' 

"Here,"  the  Chinese  repeated,  standing  close  to  Basil, 
eyeing  him  narrowly. 

"Then  they  know "  Basil  began,  but  could  not 

iinish. 

241 


242  MR.  WU 

«  No ' '— Wu  smiled  faintly—' '  they  do  not  know.  She 
is  coming  here,  your  mother,  as  my  guest — to  learn, 
amongst  other  things,  the  truth  about  you!" 

"If  you  could  spare  me  that!"  Basil  said  hoarsely. 
"We  have  been  more  like  brother  and  sister,"  he  pleaded. 

Wu  took  it  up  as  a  cue,  and  on  it  began,  with  a  little 
leer,  the  hideous  part  he  had  planned  to  play.  "Yes, 
she  is  very  young " 

"Tell  my  father,  if  you  will " 


"Your  father?"  Wu  said  sharply. 

"Yes,  tell  him,  but " 

"I  have  nothing  to  do  with  your  father!"  Wu  Li 
Chang  said  sternly,  each  word  an  emphasis. 

"But  you  said " 

"I  said  that  your  mother  was  coming  here.  She  is 
coming — alone.  She  is  a  devoted  mother.  I  am  going 
to  test  her  devotion." 

Again  there  was  a  pause — while  the  horror  sank  in. 
Basil  Gregory  did  not  grasp  it  at  first,  and  could  not 
grasp  it  very  quickly.  But  it  crept  into  his  soul  little  by 
little,  and  while  its  agony  seized  and  strangled  him,  Wu 
stood  and  watched  him  intently,  Wu  with  the  panther 
light  of  intensest  hatred  in  his  half -closed  eyes. 

"You — you  fiend!"  The  Englishwoman's  son 
screamed  it,  writhing. 

Ah  Sing  slid  a  little  nearer  him.  The  two  guarding 
moved  on  his  either  side  a  little  closer.  But  neither 
on  their  faces  nor  on  Ah  Sing's  was  there  the  slightest 
expression  or  any  sign  of  interest. 

"Why?"  Wu  laughed  as  he  spoke.  "Other  coun 
tries,  other  ways !  In  China  a  daughter  often  sacrifices 
herself  for  a  father,  a  son  for  his  mother — to  the  utmost. 
You — English — reverse  it,  and  the  mother  sacrifices  her 
self  for  her  son. ' ' 


A  CHINESE  TEACHING  243 

"You  fiend  of  hell ! "  And  with  a  yell  of  torment  the 
Englishman  sprang  almost  too  quick  for  the  vigilants  be 
side  him.  He  wrenched  one  pinioned  hand  free  and 
swung  it  up  mightily.  But  Ah  Sing — still  with  an  ex 
pressionless  face — leaned  across  the  table,  leaned  be 
tween  the  blow  and  Wu  Li  Chang. 

And  almost  as  Gregory  sprang  the  other  servants 
seized  and  held  him — they,  too,  with  indifferent,  blank 
faces.  They  would  have  shown  far  more  interest  sweep 
ing  wistaria  leaves  from  the  graveled  paths,  far,  far  more 
watching  a  quail  fight. 

"An  eye  for  an  eye!"  the  mandarin  cried  fiercely. 
"A  tooth  for  a  tooth.  That  is  what  you  teach  us,  you 
Christian  gentlemen!  And,"  he  hissed,  from  enfoamed, 
protruding  lips,  "Woman  for  woman!  We'll  teach  you 
that!" 

Basil  Gregory  hid  his  face  in  his  hand  and  buried  it 
on  his  shoulder. 

For  a  space  "Wu  Li  Chang  stood  looking  grimly  at 
the  foreigner.  He  did  not  mean  to  see  him  again.  Then 
he  spoke  emphatically  to  Ah  Sing — in  Chinese — and  at 
each  sentence  of  the  master's  Ah  Sing  bowed  his  head 
with  an  earnestness  that  was  a  promise  that  each  word  of 
"Wu  Li  Chang's  should  be  obeyed  strictly  and  minutely. 

"Ah  Sing,"  the  mandarin  said,  rising  slowly  and  tak 
ing  the  beater  from  where  it  hung  beside  the  gong.  He 
said  something  slowly,  and  then  struck  once  on  the  great 
brazen  disk,  gave  a  further  direction,  and  struck  the  gong 
twice.  And  Basil  Gregory  uncovered  his  eyes,  lifted  his 
head  limply  and  stood  watching  and  listening,  agonized, 
fascinated.  When  Wu  had  finished  his  orders  Ah  Sing 
bowed  still  lower  than  he  had  done  before,  and  then  went 
slowly  from  the  room,  but  not  by  the  door  through  which 
they  had  brought  Basil  into  it. 


244  MR.  WU 

Wu  turned  to  the  Englishman.  "You  do  not  under* 
stand  our  barbaric  tongue.  I  have  been  telling  my  serv 
ants  that  when  they  next  hear  me  strike  upon  that  gong 
they  may  release  you  to  come  here.  You  will  find  your 
mother  here.  It  will  be  a  tremendous  meeting.  Back 
to  the  pagoda!  To-morrow  it  will  be  destroyed.  Back 
to  the  pagoda,  and  wait  there,  thinking  of  my  daughter^ 
and  listen  for  the  gong  to  sound — for  when  it  strikes  you 
will  know  that  you  are  free.  These  doors  and  all  the 
gates  of  my  garden  will  be  reopened  then,  and  you  will 
be  free  to  go — wherever  you  will — with  her." 

"With  her?"  Basil  Gregory  gasped,  bewildered  and 
dazed. 

"Yes,"  Wu  Li  Chang  told  him  with  a  curt  smile,  "for 
with  my  striking  of  this  gong  your  debt  will  be  fully 
discharged.  Your  mother  will  have  paid  it." 

Gregory  made  one  supreme,  straining  effort  to  get  at 
Wu.  "You  monster!"  he  sobbed,  "you  monster  of 
hell!" 

"Quite  so,"  the  Chinese  said  calmly.  "Western  logic 
is  an  unfathomable  mystery.  You  dishonored  my  daugh 
ter,"  he  began  fiercely,  and  then  broke  off  abruptly. 
He  'd  waste  no  more  words  on  this  English  thing.  He  'd 
punish — strike  to  the  quick,  flay  to  the  raw  nerve — but 
not  wrangle  with  his  condemned.  "The  sound  of  that 
gong  will  ring  in  your  ears  as  long  as  you  live.  Go  where 
you  will,  you  will  hear  it.  Go  where  you  will,  you  will 
see,  waking  and  sleeping,  a  pagoda  by  a  lotus  lake,  while 
you  live ;  and  when  you  die,  you  will  feel  the  vengeance 
of  a  Wu.  Never  again  will  you  look  upon  your  mother's 
face  without  seeing  too  the  dead  face  of  Wu  Nang  Ping — 
and  mine." 

"Oh!"  Basil  moaned  imploringly,  "you  can't — you 
can't  do  this  awful  thing." 


A  CHINESE  TEACHING  245 

"Take  him  away,"  the  mandarin  said  in  his  own 
tongue. 

Basil  Gregory  understood  the  tone,  though  not  the 
words.  Dumb  with  terror,  he  scarcely  resisted  as  the 
two  servants  dragged  him  through  the  door. 

"Wu  Li  Chang  stood  motionless.  He  heard  the  bolts 
shut.  He  heard  the  footsteps  die  away.  But  still  he 
did  not  move. 

He  was  thinking  of  Nang  Ping — not  as  he  had  seen 
her  last,  not  as  he  had  known  her  for  years  now,  but  of 
Nang  Ping,  a  laughing,  imperious  baby.  And  then  he 
thought  of  that  other,  dearer  baby — the  baby  he  had 
married  in  Pekin — and  a  great,  silent  sob  shook  him 
roughly  as  he  stood. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

ALONE  IN  CHINA 

HE    lady   has    arrived, ' '    Ah    Sing   said    with    an 
-L     obeisance,  and  speaking,  of  course,  as  he  always 
did  to  his  master,  in  Chinese;  "she  is  coming  through 
the  honorable  garden." 

"Show  her  in."  Ah  Sing  went  out  again,  leaving 
open  the  wide  sliding  doors  through  which  he  had  come. 
And  Wu,  too,  went  from  the  room,  lifting  his  hands  high 
in  symbol  to  the  altar  as  he  passed  it.  He  left  the  room 
through  its  fourth  door  and  closed  it  close  behind  him. 
He  had  gone  into  his  sleeping-room. 

In  a  few  moments  Ah  Sing  returned,  bowing  at  the 
threshold  for  Mrs.  Gregory  to  enter.  She  came  in 
eagerly,  Ah  Wong  close  at  her  heel.  Absorbed  as  the 
mother  was  in  her  own  exquisite  anxiety  and  in  the 
paramount  errand  that  had  brought  her  here,  still  she 
was  struck  with  the  distinction  and  the  character  of  the 
room;  and  at  any  time  less  engrossed  it  would  have 
delighted  and  absorbed  her.  She  had  seen  many  rich 
interiors  in  Europe,  and  not  a  little  of  colonial  extrava 
gance  in  home  decoration,  but  she  had  not  seen  such 
luxury  as  this.  And  the  quiet  taste  of  the  place,  for 
some  reason,  surprised  her,  but  not  more  than  its  spotless 
cleanliness  did. 

Ah  Sing  watched  the  English  lady  with  inscrutable 
eyes  as  she  moved  a  little  curiously  about  the  room; 
and  to  Ah  Wong,  watching  him,  it  was  significant  that 

246 


ALONE  IN  CHINA  247 

for  this  once  his  scrutiny  was  open,  almost  frank.  And 
as  he  passed  from  the  room,  the  two  Chinese  servants 
interchanged  a  long,  grave  look.  Ah  Sing  closed  the 
door  behind  him. 

"How  stifling  it  is  here!"  Mrs.  Gregory  said,  un 
fastening  her  cloak  and  drawing  off  her  gloves.  "I 
wonder  where  my  hostess  has  gone  off  to.  How  very 
droll  of  her!  Ah  Wong" — putting  her  hand  a  moment 
on  the  other's  arm — "I'm  glad  I  have  you  with  me!" 
The  amah  took  the  cloak  and  the  gloves ;  put  the  gloves 
in  the  cloak,  the  cloak  over  her  arm.  And  after  a  mo 
ment  Mrs.  Gregory  moved  wearily  across  the  room. 

Ah  "Wong  looked  hurriedly  about  the  room — search- 
ingly.  She  gave  a  little  quick  breath  when  she  saw  the 
one  high  window.  Without  a  sound  she  went  to  Mrs. 
Gregory  and  touched  her  arm.  Florence  turned  ques- 
tioningly,  and  Ah  Wong  pointed  eloquently  up  to  the 
high  orifice ;  then,  watching  first  one  door  and  then  an 
other,  she  moved  a  carved  bench  a  little  nearer  the  win 
dow — without  a  sound — while  the  mistress  stood  and 
watched  her  half  curious,  half  amused.  Again  the  amah 
pointed — this  time  from  bench  to  window,  and  from  the 
window  to  the  bench.  She  thrust  her  hand  into  her 
dress,  clutching  at  something  hidden  there,  and  bent  her 
face  close  to  her  mistress's  ear.  But  her  own  ear  caught 
an  almost  imperceptible  sound,  and  when  Wu  came  from 
his  bedroom  Ah  Wong  was  standing  some  distance  from 
her  lady,  stolid  but  bored,  her  empty  hands  folded  in 
front  of  her,  idly. 

The  mandarin  stood  just  inside  the  door,  gravely 
watching.  He  did  not  speak.  His  face  was  very  calm, 
priestly  even. 

Florence  Gregory  felt  his  presence,  and  turned  with 
eager,  welcoming  eyes.  But  when  she  saw  him  she  re- 


248  MR.  WU 

coiled  a  little,  with  a  slight  breath  of  surprise.  This 
morning  in  Hong  Kong  Wu  had  only  half  seemed  to  her 
un-English.  Here,  in  his  own  house,  and  clad  as  she  had 
never  seen  any  one — stiff,  gorgeous  robes,  tiny  fan  of 
ivory  and  silk,  a  mandarin's  necklace  of  cornelian  beads 
— he  was  intensely  Chinese,  barbarian,  unknown,  and  she 
felt  very  far  from  home. 

Wu  made  the  motion  of  salutation  with  his  fan — it 
is  so  the  Chinese  "bow" — before  he  said  reverentially, 
"This  is  indeed  an  honor — none  the  less  felt  because  it 
was  expected." 

Mrs.  Gregory  laughed  a  little  nervously,  but  somewhat 
reassured  by  his  voice,  as  he  had  intended  her  to  be, 
"You  startled  me,  Mr.  "Wu,"  she  said.  "I  hardly  ex 
pected " 

"This  dress?"  he  said  pleasantly.  "It  is  put  on  in 
your  honor.  To  have  received  you  in  my  Chinese  home 
in  other  than  Chinese  garb  would  have  been  a  rude 
ness — and  so,  impossible.  Hong  Kong  is  your  Queen's 
now,  even  its  city's  legal  name — though  custom-ridden 
tongues  still  stubbornly  say  'Hong  Kong' — and  there, 
where  I  am  but  a  business  man  among  business  men,  I 
dress  as  Europeans  do.  I  find  it  more  convenient.  And 
a  long  residence  in  Europe  makes  it  easy.  But  this  is 
China.  You  are  indeed  in  China  now,  madame — as  truly 
in  China  as  if  you  were  within  the  vermilion  walls  of 
the  great  imperial  palace  or  in  evil  Hwangchukki.  The 
Kowloon  territory  ceded  to  England  in  1860  ends  a  yard 
beyond  my  gates.  My  kinswoman  seems  remiss  to  you, 
I  fear,"  he  continued.  "But  pray  dismiss  the  thought. 
She  has  gone  to  give  an  order  for  your  entertainment 
and  to  assume  her  best  robes  in  your  honor — robes  she 
may  not  wear  to  the  gate. ' ' 

"Oh!  but  she  was  very  splendid,  and  I  thought  how 


ALONE  IN  CHINA  249 

beautifully  dressed/'  The  mandarin  fluttered  his  fan 
in  grateful  acknowledgment.  "And  your  daughter?  I 
hope  Miss  Wu  is  well?" 

Wu  Li  Chang  bowed — his  head  as  well  as  his  fan  this 
time. 

"And  now,  Mr.  Wu" — she  could  wait  no  longer,  and 
as  she  spoke  she  moved  a  few  steps  towards  him — "what 
news?" 

"Good,"  Wu  said  assuringly.  "So  that  it  does  not 
need  to  travel  fast,"  he  added  suavely,  moving  to  the 
table,  motioning  her  deferentially  to  a  seat  beyond  it. 

"Ah!  thank  God!"  She  was  tremulous  with  the  in 
tensity  of  her  relief,  for  she  had  feared  the  worst.  It's 
a  sorry  trick  that  mother-hearts  have.  "And  thank 
you,  Mr.  Wu,"  she  added  earnestly,  with  a  pretty, 
friendly  gesture  that  was  very  womanly  and  very  Eng 
lish.  But  she  was  too  restless,  and  too  anxious  still 
for  details,  to  take  at  once  the  seat  Wu  again  indicated. 
And  she  moved  about  the  room  a  little,  hoping  Wu  would 
volunteer  more,  and  a  little  at  a  loss  what  to  say  next 
if  he  did  not  of  his  own  accord  immediately  slake  in  full 
the  burning  torment  of  her  anxiety.  "Ah  Wong,  take 
my  scarf, ' '  she  said,  unwinding  it.  It  was  light  and  lacy, 
but  even  it  seemed  to  stifle  her.  Ah  Wong  came  for  the 
gauze,  and  backed  away  again,  standing  immovable,  un 
interested,  by  the  door. 

Mrs.  Gregory  waited,  a  little  pantingly,  but  Wu  said 
nothing.  She  looked  round  the  room,  not  at  its  treasures, 
but  looking  for  her  own  next  words,  piteously  afraid  of 
blundering,  unable  to  be  patient. 

Wu  Li  Chang  did  not  misunderstand,  but  he  pretended 
to,  and  said  in  a  pleased  voice,  "You  find  my  modest 
treasures  interesting  ? ' ' 

"Very,"  she  forced  herself  to  lie.     She  had  heard  a 


250  MR.  WU 

great  deal  of  Oriental  deliberateness,  and  she  was  heroi 
cally  determined  to  commit  no  social  solecism,  give  this 
man  no  smallest  affront.  "Oh!  very."  If  he  wished 
his  possessions  admired  by  her,  admired  by  her  they 
should  be,  and  to  his  vanity's  content,  cost  her  heart 

the  delay  what  it  might.     "I  had  no  idea "  she 

nerved  herself  to  begin,  but  stopped  abruptly,  embar 
rassed  and  at  a  loss. 

' '  That  a  Chinese  house  could  be  so  civilized  a  place  ? ' ' 
"Wu  quizzed  good-naturedly. 

Eeally,  she  must  do  better  than  this.  She  would  not 
give  offense.  "Not  only  civilized,"  she  said,  contriving 
a  slight  laugh — it  was  an  awkward  one — "but  refined  to 
the  last  degree." 

There  was  very  fine  sarcasm  and  some  contempt  in 
the  little  bow  he  gave  her — not  a  Chinese  bow — but 
his  voice  was  sincere  and  almost  pleading.  "My  dear 
Mrs.  Gregory,"  he  began,  "there  is  not  so  very  much 
difference  between  the  East  and  West,  after  all.  Per 
haps  we  in  the  East  have  a  finer  sense  of  art ;  certainly 
we  care  more  for  nature.  But  we  all  have  the  same  de 
sires — ambitions — the  same  passions,  hate,  revenge — and 
love!"  There  was  honey  in  the  slow,  well-bred  voice 
now — honey  and  something  else.  It  jarred  on  the  Eng 
lishwoman,  and  she  turned  with  a  slightly  uncomfortable 
look.  Instantly  his  tone  changed  to  one  entirely 
courteous  still,  but  ordinary  and  commonplace.  "Will 
you  not  be  seated?"  he  said  simply.  "Or  shall  I  de 
scribe  some  of  my  ornaments?  You  look  about  you  as 
if  you  were  good  enough  to  be  interested  in  my  Chinese 
bric-a-brac. ' ' 

"Yes — do — do,"  she  stammered  desperately;  "that — 
that  wonderful  thing  there?  That  gorgeous-looking 
duck!" 


ALONE  IN  CHINA  251 

"Ah!"  Wu  said,  "that  is  a  very  precious  treasure. 
Our  Chinese  potters,  as  probably  you  know,  are  very  fond 
of  reproducing  members  of  the  animal  kingdom." 

"I  have  never  seen  a  finer  piece  of  that  kind  of  pottery 
in  my  life,"  Mrs.  Gregory  said  with  almost  breathless 
enthusiasm,  gazing  at  the  curio  with  eyes  that  scarcely 
saw  it  and  fumbling  her  rings. 

Wu  Li  Chang  smiled.     "And  it  is  a  very  sacred  ob 
ject,"  he  said. 
"Oh?  "she  asked. 

"It  is  a  mandarin  duck,"  Wu  told  her  significantly. 
"And  the  mandarin  duck  with  us,  you  know,  is  the 
emblem  of  conjugal  fidelity!"  He  ended  with  a  strange, 
low,  sinister  laugh.  It  was  slight  and  very  low,  but  it 
affected  Florence  Gregory  weirdly.  To  cover  up  her  own 
disconcerted  inquietude  she  moved — at  random — to  one 
of  the  magnificent  carved  cedar  columns  beside  the  altar 
(Wu  watching  her  with  a  grinning  face)  and  pointed  to 
the  weapon  hanging  there.  "And  that  sword  up 
there?" 

"That?"  Wu  laughed,  and  at  the  sound  Ah  Wong's 
blood  curdled  in  her  breast;  "yes,  that's  an  interesting 
thing.  It  has  rather  a  curious  history. ' ' 

Her  procrastinated  anxiety  for  her  son,  her  thwarted 
hunger  to  see  him,  were  unnerving  her,  and  she  was 
growing  anxious  on  her  own  account,  though  that  she 
scarcely  realized  and  in  no  way  could  have  explained. 

"Oh?"  she  forced  herself  to  say.  But  she  said  it 
lamely,  and  she  could  say  no  more. 

Apparently   Wu    noticed    nothing    amiss.     "Perhaps 

rather  a  gruesome  one,"  he  said  with  a  note  of  apology. 

"Oh!"  his  guest  said  with  a  shudder;  "well,  then, 

don't  tell  me !     At  the  moment  I  don't  quite  feel " 

"Then,"    Wu   interrupted   her   quickly,    solicitously 


252  MR.  WU 

even,  "I  will  spare  you  its  story,"  but  added  more 
crisply,  "for  the  present,  at  any  rate." 

He  moved  easily  about  the  room  and  proceeded  in 
the  most  leisurely  way  to  point  out  his  treasures. 
"This,"  he  said,  lifting  a  bowl  from  its  place  in  one  of 
the  cabinets  and  bringing  it  to  her,  "will  interest  ycai 
very  much.  This  is  one  of  the  famous  dragon  bowls — 
one  of  the  first  three  ever  made. ' ' 

"Indeed,"  she  said,  "how  very  interesting!"  But 
she  could  not  hide  her  torture  or  her  indifference. 

Wu  smiled  cruelly  into  the  priceless  dragon  bowl,  and 
carried  it  back  to  its  shelf  even  more  slowly  than  he  had 
brought  it.     "Up  here" — he  pointed  to  over  one  door — 
"I  have  what  your  English  collectors  call  a  three-bor 
der  plate.     I  have  a  set  of  six.     Up  there" — he  pointed 
to  the  top  of  another  cabinet — "is  another  with  five  bor 
ders.     It  is  almost  unique.     Li  Hung  Chang  has  one, 
Her  Imperial  Majesty  the  Dowager  Empress  has  one,  but 
they  are  very,  very  rare.    And  this" — indicating  an 
other  bowl  conspicuously  placed  on  a  carved  ebony  stand 
of  its  own  on  a  malachite  pedestal — malachite  carved  into 
coarse  but  exquisite  lace — "is  a  Shangsi  bowl.     There 
are  several  in  the  house.     Each  one  is  worth  something 
like  two  thousand  pounds. ' '    He  took  it  in  his  hands  and 
turned  it  about  very,  very  slowly,  now  this  way,  now 
that,  gloating  over  it  as  if  he'd  never  be  done.     The 
woman  could  have  screamed;  and,  in  spite  of  her,  a 
heavy  sigh  escaped.    But  "Wu  seemed  not  to  hear  it.    He 
returned  the  Shangsi  to  its  stand  at  last  and  crossed  the 
room  to  a  larger  stand,  and,  laying  down  his  fan,  which 
he  had  held  till  now,  took  up  a  sea-green  vase,  beautifully 
molded,  enormously  glazed.     "You  must  look  at  this, 
dear  Mrs.  Gregory,"  he  told  her  cordially,  "you  must 


ALONE  IN  CHINA  253 

look  at  this  well.  This  is  a  particularly  fine  piece — this 
sea  green  glaze,  Mrs.  Gregory — one  of  the  earliest  pro 
ductions  of  the  ceramic  art." 

Her  face  was  twitching  now  with  nervousness.  He 
seemed  to  notice  her  perturbation  for  the  first  time,  and 
said  contritely,  "But  I  fear  I  weary  you  with  my  trea 
sures,"  and  carried  the  glaze  back,  very,  very  slowly, 
and  put  it  down. 

"No — no,"  she  said  hastily,  "no,  Mr.  Wu,  not  that — 
not  that  at  all.  But  I  have  come  here  with  only  one 

object " 

"With  two,  dear  lady,"  he  interrupted  her  gently; 
"you  forget  Madame  Sing." 

"Indeed,  oh,  no — I — I  did  not  mean  that,  forgive  me — 
but  my  boy — his  safety — to  see  him — my  mind  is  full  of 

that "     The  mandarin  smiled  indulgently  and  took 

up  his  fan  again.  ' '  I  should  like  to  come  again,  if  I  may, 
some  other  time — when  we  are  older  friends" — she  waa 
pleading  now — "I  should  like  to  come  again  and  spend 
hours  examining  all  your  wonderful  treasures — if  you 
will  let  me.  I  hope  you  will.  But  now — now — I  have 
only  one  thought  in  my  mind.  I  can  have  but  the  one. ' ' 
Her  voice  trembled  pitifully. 

Wu  Li  Chang  smiled  indulgently.  "I  have  been  wait- 
ing,  Mrs.  Gregory,"  he  said  explanatorily,  "for  you  to 
dismiss  your  servant." 

Ah  Wong  fixed  her  eyes  on  her  mistress,  entreaty 
and  misery  in  their  narrow  depths. 

Mrs.  Gregory  looked  at  Wu  in  startled  astonishment. 
"Dismiss  her — Ah  Wong?  Do  you  mean  send  her 
away?" 

"Only  out  of  the  room,"  the  mandarin  said  care 
lessly.  "She  can  wait  in  the  courtyard." 


254  MR.  WU 

"But — but  I  couldn't  possibly  do  that,"  the  visitor 
stammered.  She  was  frightened  now,  and  knew  that  she 
was. 

"Nevertheless,"  "Wu  returned,  in  a  tone  he  had  not 
used  before,  "I  fear  I  must  insist." 

Their  eyes  met.  The  Chinese  eyes  of  the  man,  in 
scrutable,  the  English  eyes  of  the  woman,  appealing,  ter 
rorized.  And  Ah  "Wong  half  thrust  a  hand  in  her 
bosom,  then  dropped  it  back  quickly  to  her  side. 

"But,  Mr.  Wu,"  Mrs.  Gregory  faltered,  "it  is  such  an 
extraordinary  request  to  make — under  the  circum 
stances." 

"Not  in  the  least,"  Wu  said  smoothly — and  he  seemed 
somewhat  amused.  "Do  you  in  England  usually  bring 
your  servants  into  the  drawing-rooms  of  your  friends  ? ' ' 

"No-o.  No,"  she  admitted  lamely,  "but — that  seems 
different,  somehow.  I  think,  under  the  circumstances — 
and  Madame  Sing " 

Sing  Kung  Yah's  remissness  as  a  hostess  received  no 
further  comment  from  her  kinsman.  But  he  said  em 
phatically,  "I  could  not  possibly  offend  the  spirits  of 
my  ancestors  by  sitting  down  in  the  room  with  your 
servant. ' J 

"Your  ancestors,  Mr.  Wu!  What  on  earth  have  they 
to  do  with  a  matter  of  modern  propriety  ? ' ' 

"I  said  I  should  offend  them,"  the  mandarin  replied 
with  ominous  quietude. 

"Well  then,"  the  Englishwoman  retorted,  just  a  shade 
contemptuously, ' '  they  must  be  very  thin-skinned. ' ' 

"Mrs.  Gregory ! ' '  Wu  Li  Chang  said  so  sternly  that  she 
turned  and  looked  at  him  alarmed,  ' '  this  afternoon  your 
husband  grievously  offended  me  by  certain  disrespectful 
allusions  to  my  ancestors.  He  knew  better — or  he  should 
have  done.  You  do  not,  for  you  are  unacquainted  with 


ALONE  IN  CHINA  255 

China.  So  you  must  pardon  me  if  I  point  out  to  you 
that  in  China  we  pay  the  memory  of  our  -ancestors  the 
deepest  respect." 

"Oh!"  she  said  unhappily,  "I'm  sorry — I'm  so  sorry. 
I  wouldn  't  offend  you  for  the  world. ' ' 

"Then  will  you  kindly  send  your  servant  away?" 
Wu  put  his  words  in  the  sequence  of  a  question,  but  there 
was  neither  interrogation  nor  request  in  his  voice:  it 
was  cold,  imperative  and  final. 

The  Englishwoman  hesitated  miserably.  She  was 
thoroughly  alarmed  now.  "But,"  she  begged  (for  it 
was  supplication — open,  not  implied),  "Mr  Wu,  I — I 
hope  that  I  shall  myself  be  going  soon." 

Wu  took  no  notice  of  what  she  said,  and,  for  the  time 
no  further  notice  of  Florence  Gregory.  He  clapped 
his  hands  sharply,  and  at  their  sound  Ah  Sing  stood  in 
the  doorway. 

"Analiaotang,"  the  mandarin  said  quiety.  The 
frightened  Englishwoman  understood  no  Chinese.  But 
Wu's  tone — quiet  as  it  was — said  unmistakably,  "Take 
her  away. ' ' 

Ah  Sing  moved  quietly  on  Ah  Wong,  and  she,  looking 
pathetically  at  her  mistress,  backed  as  slowly  as  she  dared 
through  the  open  door,  from  the  room.  But  at  the  thres 
hold  she  paused,  glanced  for  an  instant  up  at  the  high 
window,  looked  her  mistress  squarely  in  the  eyes,  bowed 
her  head  and  was  gone. 

And  Mrs.  Gregory  had  returned  her  amah's  signal, 
look  for  look. 

It  was  two  women  against  one  man;  and  one  of  those 
women  was  Chinese. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  SWORD 

YOU — you  shouldn't  have  done  that,"  Mrs.  Gregory 
faltered  as  the  door  closed  again  behind  Ah  Sing. 
"She  is  very  devoted  to  me,"  she  added  feebly. 

"No  doubt,"  the  mandarin  answered  tersely.  "But  I 
fancy  my  authority  is  even  more  powerful  than  her  de 
votion.  ' ' 

The  woman's  uneasiness  was  growing  rapidly.  "I 
don 't  think  I  ought  to  have  come, ' '  she  said,  looking  about 
her  nervously.  "But  now, ' '  with  an  effort  to  speak  ordi 
narily  and  to  assume  an  unconcern  she  no  longer  felt, 
"Mr.  "Wu,  what  is  the  news?" 

"Oh!  pray,  Mrs.  Gregory,"  the  Chinese  begged,  all 
the  blandness  in  his  voice  again, ' '  do  not  let  so  trifling  an 
incident  disturb  you  in  the  least." 

A  sudden  throb  of  Chinese  music  came  from  the  gar 
den,  and  at  the  first  note  a  change  crept  into  his  face.  It 
was  such  music — but  softly  thrummed,  almost  timid — as 
he  and  Wu  Lu  had  heard  together  on  their  first  hours 
alone  in  Sze-chuan.  Chinese  music  is  strange  to 
European  ears ;  they  rarely  learn  to  hear  it  for  what  it  is. 
It  is  not  discord.  It  is  not  crude.  At  its  best  it  is  the 
pulse  of  passion  turned  into  sound.  No  other  music  is  so 
passionate,  no  other  music  so  provocative.  And  this  was 
Chinese  music  at  its  best.  Wu  laid  down  his  fan  softly, 
and  stood  listening,  his  head  thrust  a  little  towards  the 
sound.  Mrs.  Gregory  listened  too  for  a  moment, 

256 


.      THE  STORY  OF  THE  SWORD  257 

startled ;  then,  in  a  spasm  of  nervous  tension,  she  covered 
her  ears  with  her  hands. 

Wu  took  a  step  towards  her.     "Do  you  not  find  the 
music  agreeable  ? "  he  asked  her  in  a  creamy  voice. 

"No,"  she  almost  sobbed,  "it  is  horrible!  Horrible! 
I — I  can't  bear  it — as  I  feel  now."  And  she  sank  down 
miserably  on  a  stool  and  leaned  a  little  against  the  table. 
Wu  smiled — a  cruel,  relentless  smile.  But  he  moved  to 
the  low,  wide  window,  pushed  back  the  opaque  slide,  and 
called  out  abruptly,  "Changhoopoh."  The  music 
stopped  instantly. 

' '  Oh,  thank  you ! ' '  the  woman  cried. 

"I  am  sorry  it  distressed  you,"  he  said  in  an  odd 

voice;  "perhaps  these  notes " 

"They  jarred  on  me  dreadfully,"  she  sighed. 
"It  is  a  pity,"  the  mandarin  told  her,  "for  the  music 
was  in  your  honor. ' ' 

"  I  'm  sorry, ' '  she  faltered,  twisting  and  untwisting  her 
little  handkerchief — Wu  was  fanning  himself  again, 
slowly,  contentedly — "not  to  appreciate  it  more.  You 
must  please  forgive  me,"  she  pled,  "but  I  am  so  dread 
fully  overwrought. ' '  She  turned  to  him  with  a  wan  smile 
that  tried  to  be  confident,  but  failed,  and  with  a  brave  at 
tempt  to  appear  at  ease  that  was  sadder  than  her  tears 
would  have  been,  ' '  Now,  Mr.  Wu,  please  tell  me.  Where 
is  my  son  ?  What  do  you  know  about  him  ?  Oh !  if  you 
only  understood  a  mother's  anxiety!" 

Wu  Li  Chang  looked  into  her  eyes  with  a  narrow  smile 
that  was  half  a  taunt,  half  a  caress.  "Ah!"  he  said, 
laughing  a  little,  "the  old,  old  mother-vanity.  Why  is  it, 
I  wonder,  that  motherhood  lays  claim  to  all  the  love,  all 
the  tenderness,  and  to  all  the  misery  of  parentage  ?  And 
it  is  so,  world-wide.  Our  own  women  are  so.  But" — 
his  voice  grew  stern — "fathers  feel  too!  Fathers  love 


258  MR.  WU 

their  young.  Fathers  dote,  brood,  fear,  suffer."  He 
ended  with  a  slight,  bitter  laugh  that  was  a  sneer  and 
frightened  the  woman  oddly,  and  then  he  added 
smoothly,  imperturbably,  "I  was  about  to  say,  Mrs.  Greg 
ory,  that  that  music,  performed  in  your  honor,  is  one  of 
our  classical  love-songs. ' ' 

"Really,"  she  responded  lamely.  "Well,  I  hope  your 

love-making  is  not  so "  She  broke  off,  painfully  at 

a  loss,  and  turned  her  head  away. 

"Wu,  still  standing,  leaned  towards  her,  resting  his 
hands  on  the  table  between  them.  "Not  so — violent?" 
he  suggested  with  a  leer,  "Displeasing?  Passionate? 
What  was  the  word  you  were  about  to  use,  Mrs.  Greg 
ory?"  He  almost  whispered  her  name. 

"Oh!  Mr.  Wu!"  Florence  exclaimed,  rising  hys 
terically — the  torture  was  telling  on  her  cruelly  now; 
the  handkerchief  was  torn  and  knotted — "please  have 
mercy  on  a  mother 's  agony ! ' 

Wu  Li  Chang  bent  down,  across  the  table  still,  and 
laid  a  hand  very  gently  on  hers.  At  his  touch  her  self- 
control,  already  worn  to  a  thread,  snapped,  and  she 
screamed  violently.  Wu  moved  his  fingers  softly  across 
her  wrist,  and  smiled  down  at  her  amiably.  "  1 11  scream 
the  house  down ! ' '  she  gasped  pantingly.  Wu  looked  at 
her  calmly,  shook  his  head  deprecatingly,  and  folded  his 
hands  upon  his  arms  beneath  his  sleeves.  Nothing  an 
swered  her  cry  of  terror — unless  the  absolute  stillness  of 
the  garden  did,  or  its  rich,  penetrating  perfume.  "I'm 
sorry,"  she  murmured  distractedly,  recognizing  her  mis 
take,  and  that  to  show  fear  would  both  affront  him  and 
invite  annoyance.  ' '  I  didn  't  mean  that, ' '  she  said,  chok 
ing  back  a  second  scream;  "I  only  mean  that — oh!  I'm 
tortured  by  all  this  suspense."  In  spite  of  her  new  re 
solve,  a  low  sob  broke  from  her,  and  she  huddled  down 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  SWORD  259 

upon  the  stool  again,  crying  like  a  tired  and  frightened 
child. 

The  man  stood  a  moment  watching  her  grimly.  Her 
head  was  bowed  and  she  could  not  see  his  face.  There 
was  bitter  determination  on  it,  remorselessness,  but  no 
desire.  He  moved  slowly  across  the  room  and  closed  and 
fastened  the  thick  screen-slide  of  the  window  that  looked 
upon  the  garden.  And  now  again,  except  for  the  high 
narrow  window,  through  which  no  one  could  look  out  or 
in,  the  room  was  shut  and  barred  from  all  the  rest  of  the 
world. 

They  two  were  entirely  alone. 

The  mandarin  moved  slowly  back  until  he  stood  beside 
the  woman.  "Pray  compose  yourself,  dear  lady,"  he 
said  ^ery  quietly.  ' '  That  weakness  was  unworthy  of  you, 
and  hardly  complimentary  to  your  host."  He  took  her 
hand  quietly  in  his,  and  she  made  no  remonstrance,  made 
no  attempt  to  draw  her  hand  away  again.  He  put  his 
other  hand  on  her  arm,  and  pushed  her  gently  down  upon 
her  seat,  and  released  his  hold. 

' '  I  'm  so  sorry, ' '  the  woman  said  brokenly,  brushing  her 
hand  across  her  eyes.  ' '  I — I  am  not  myself.  Please  for 
give  me."  Wu  flicked  that  aside  with  a  courteous  ges 
ture.  "And  now,"  her  voice  was  little  more  than  a 
whispered  gasp,  "Mr.  Wu,  please  tell  me " 

' '  I  am  about  to  do  so.  Patience ! ' '  Wu  said  silkenly. 
"In  China  things  move  slowly.  China  is  the  tortoise 
of  the  world,  not  the  hare.  I  was  going  to  tell  you" — 
he  spoke  with  a  deliberation  that  was  a  torture  in  itself. 

"Yes?"  she  interrupted  his  vindictive  procrastina 
tion  feverishly. 

"About  that  sword. ' '  The  mandarin  pointed  to  where 
it  hung. 

Mrs.  Gregory  half  smothered  a  moan. 


260  MR.  WU 

"The  sword  with  rather  a  gruesome  history " 

"Oh!  don't,  please,  Mr.  Wu,"  she  broke  in,  "please 
— I — I  couldn  't  bear  it  now. 

"But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Gregory,"  he  persisted  blandly, 
"good  news  will  keep.  Time  is  not  pressing.  Besides, 
tea  has  not  yet  been  brought  in." 

"Tea!"  she  panted  distractedly;  "oh!  Mr.  Wu,  you 
must  please  excuse  me. ' ' 

"I  beg  you  to  excuse  me,"  the  Chinese  corrected,  a 
little  arrogantly.  "For  countless  generations  my  ances 
tors  have  drunk  tea  at  this  hour,  and  our  tradition  must 
be  kept  up.  You  have  been  long  enough  in  China  to 
know,  perhaps,  that  tea-drinking  with  us  as  a  matter  of 
ceremony  is  an  indispensable  custom " 

"Yes,  I  do  know  that,"  she  said  quickly,  "but — I " 

"And  so,"  Wu  continued  pleasantly,  "whilst  we  are 
waiting  for  tea  I  will  tell  you  the  story  of  the  sword." 
And  he  moved  as  if  to  lift  it  down. 

With  half-closed  eyes,  wearied  with  terror,  Florence 
Gregory  half  crouched  against  the  table,  prepared  to 
listen.  Her  rings  were  cutting  into  her  hands.  Her 
handkerchief  lay  at  her  feet,  a  ball  of  rag.  Suddenly 
Wu  turned  from  the  weapon,  left  it  hanging  in  its  place 
and  swung  back  to  her;  standing  behind  her,  his  hands 
on  the  table,  almost  touching  her,  bending  over  her,  he 
said,  "By  the  way,  Mrs.  Gregory,  you  must  love  your 
son  very  much. ' ' 

"  Oh ! "  she  told  him,  rising  and  turning  to  him  with 
supplication  in  voice  and  gesture,  "I  do. " 

"Otherwise  you  would  not  be  here?"  the  Chinese 
asked  her  calmly. 

"Otherwise  I  should  not  be  here,"  she  said  a  little 
proudly,  stung  for  the  moment  back  to  a  sort  of  self-as- 
sertiveness. 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  SWORD  261 

-•Alone,"  he  added  with  a  horrid  emphasis.  "But  a 
mother's  love  is  capable  of  any  sacrifice,  it  it  not?" 

"It  is  capable  of  much  sacrifice,"  the  woman  returned, 
some  dignity  lingering  in  her  voice. 

"If  your  son  were  in  any  peril,  you  would " 

"Oh !"  the  mother  said  sadly,  "I  would  give — my  very 
life." 

"Your  life!"  the  mandarin  exclaimed  almost  con 
temptuously.  "In  China  life  is  cheap.  Is  there  nothing 
you  value  even  more  ? ' ' 

"Why?"  she  asked  feebly,  at  bay  now,  and  putting 
up  such  poor  fight  as  she  could  for  time,  in  the  desperate 
hope  that  some  outside  help  might  come — from  Ah  Wong 
or  from  somewhere.  "Why,  what  can  one  value  more 
than  life?" 

"Let  us  rather  say,"  the  Chinese  insinuated,  bending 
until  his  breath  fanned  her  cheek,  "what  can  a  woman 
value  more  than  her  own  life — or  the  life  of  her  son?" 
He  paused,  not  for  a  reply — he  expected  none — but  to 
watch  the  effect  upon  her  of  his  poisoned  words ;  to  watch 
and  gloat.  She,  poor  creature,  no  longer  made  any  pre 
tense.  Her  strength  was  gone:  worn  away  by  the  per 
sistent  drip,  drip  of  his  long,  slow  cruelty.  She  looked 
about  the  room  wildly,  saw  the  face  leering  close  to  hers, 
and  shrank  away  shuddering.  "When  I  have  your  at 
tention,  Mrs.  Gregory,"  Wu  said  determinedly,  but  fall 
ing  back  a  pace  or  two. 

The  entrapped  woman  summoned  up  all  her  courage. 
"You  shall  have  it,  Mr.  Wu,"  she  said  steadily,  rising, 
' '  from  the  moment  you  tell  me  what  I  came  to  hear. ' ' 

"If  you  will  be  seated  again,"  the  mandarin  said 
suavely,  "I  will  proceed  to  do  so.  But  you  must  allow 
me  to  choose  my  own  route. ' ' 

Florence  Gregory  looked  at  her  tormentor  squarely, 


262  MR.  WU 

then  beseechingly.    She  hesitated.    And  then  she  sank 
back  listlessly  on  to  the  seat. 

"And  so,"  the  man  continued,  ''I  will  commence  with 
— the  sword." 

Mrs.  Gregory  closed  her  aching  eyes  and  caught  her 
cold  hands  together— and  waited. 

The  mandarin  moved,  and  spoke  more  and  more  < 
liberately.  Slowness  could  not  be  slower  than  his  was 
now.  He  took  down  the  sword— he  remembered  how  he 
had'touched  it  Ias1>-his  face  was  ice,  his  voice  as  cold. 
"As  I  told  you,"  he  began,  standing  in  front  of  her,  the 
sword  resting  on  its  point,  held  between  them,  "it  be 
longed  to  an  ancestor  of  mine  who  lived  many  generations 
ago  Wu  Li  Chang,  whose  name  I  bear.  Perhaps  you 
would  like  to  look  at  it  more  closely. ' '  There  was  a  note 
of  command  in  his  voice,  and  the  woman,  obeying,  lifted 
her  head  a  little  and  fixed  her  agonized  eyes  on  the 
weapon  he  held,  edge  towards  her.  "I  will  show  it  to 
you  and  then  restore  it  to  its  place.  You  see,  the  blade 

is  no  longer  keen "    But  the  point  was.     She  saw 

neither.     "I  keep  it  merely  for  its  history." 
it  on  the  table,  laid  it  between  the  Englishwoman  and 
himself,  as  he  might  have  laid  a  covenant  or  some  vital 
document  of  evidence,  a  terrible  accusation,  a  great  deed 

of  gift. 

The  torture  of  the  merciless  leisurely  recital  was  tell 
ing  on  the  woman  visibly.  She  had  held  a  pistol  stoically 
enough  this  morning.  But  when,  at  a  weary  movement 
of  her  own,  the  lace  in  her  sleeve  caught  in  the  old 
sword's  hilt,  she  shuddered  and  shrank  back.  She  made 
no  pretense  of  listening.  She  was  "done,"  for  then  at 
least;  and  of  her  diplomatic  courteousness  not  a  shred 
was  left.  But  yet  she  heard  each  word. 

Wu  sat  down  again,  and  the  slow,  cold  voice  went  on 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  SWORD  263 

evenly.  "My  ancestor  had  only  one  child,  a  very  beauti 
ful  daughter.  He  worshiped  her  with  more  devotion 
than  is  common  in  China — for  you  know  we  do  not  often 
(unless  of  pure  Manchu  blood)  esteem  daughters  so 
highly  as  sons.  But  he  was  an  admirable  man — a  good 
neighbor,  unselfish,  upright,  charitable  (and — is  it  not 
strange? — for  all  this  was  before  the  missionaries  came 
to  China),  a  faithful  husband — he  was  a  very  devoted 
father.  She  was,  in  your  "Western  phrase,  the  apple  of 
his  eye.  "Well,  one  day  when  the  time  came  for  her  mar 
riage  to  a  mandarin  to  whom  she  was  betrothed,  her 
father  discovered  that  she — that  her  marriage  was  no 
longer  possible."  Basil  Gregory's  mother  was  listening 
now,  not  listlessly.  The  ears  of  a  mother's  soul  are 
terribly  acute.  "He  dragged  from  her  her  lover's  name, 
and  then,  without  a  word  of  reproach  or  of  warning,  he 
slew  the  being  that  he  loved — with  that  sword. ' ' 

The  English  mother  moaned.     She  understood. 

"And  after  that,  her  lover  too  was  slain;  and  not 
only  he,  but  also  his  sister,  his  mother,  his  entire  family. 
My  old  sword  has  drunk  deep,  Mrs.  Gregory,"  and  he 
drew  a  finger  lovingly  along  its  blade. 

"Don't — don't  tell  me  any  more,"  Florence  Gregory 
whispered. 

"Wu  lifted  the  weapon  and  laid  it  across  his  knee — 
reverently.  "I  warned  you  that  it  was  rather  a  grue 
some  story, ' '  he  said  gravely. 

«Yes — well,"  she  stumbled,  playing  still  for  time,  try 
ing  to  think,  "thank  Heaven  we  are  more  civilized  to-day 
than — than  anything  so  horrible  as  that ! " 

Wu  smiled.  "Much  more  civilized,  no  doubt. 
Methods  change ;  and  since  I  have  had  the  advantage  of  a 
European  education,  if  I  found  myself  in  such  a  case, 
I  would  not  adopt  so  bloodthirsty  a  revenge.  IndewjL  7. 


264  MR.  WU 

think,  if  anything,  my  ancestors  erred  on  the  side  of 
leniency."  Wu  Li  Chang  paused.  Less  light  was  com 
ing  through  the  one  high  window  now.  Florence  Greg 
ory  was  well-nigh  strangled  by  the  beating  of  her  tor 
tured,  frightened  heart.  And  almost  "Wu  could  hear  its 
beat. 

"He  was  robbed  of  honor,"  he  said  sternly;  "he  took 
merely  life  in  exchange,  whilst  he  might  have  taken — 
from  the  sister  or  the  mother — that  which  they  would 
have  held  dearer  than  life.  Are  you  listening  to  me, 
Mrs.  Gregory  ? ' '  for  she  had  buried  her  face  in  her  hands 
on  the  table  where  the  sword  had  laid. 

She  lifted  her  head  heavily — her  face  was  ashen  and 
lifeless — and  looked  at  him  with  stricken,  agonized  eyes. 

"I  have  wearied  you,"  "Wu  said  contritely.  "Your 
husband  would  reproach  me — or  your  honorable  son. 
My  story  was  too  long,  and  unpleasant  in  an  English 
lady's  ears.  Yet  I  have  said  no  word  that  does  not  bring 
me  nearer  to  my  point.  I,  too,  had  a  daughter " 

' '  Had ! ' '  the  woman 's  lips  just  breathed  it. 

"And  family  history  has  repeated  itself — so  far." 

For  some  moments  there  was  silence  in  the  room — a 
silence  far  more  poignant  than  any  words — a  silence  chill 
and  kindless  as  the  voicelessness  of  death.  Then 
Florence  Gregory  started  up  at  the  sounds  of  bolts  with 
drawn  and  of  panels  sliding  in  their  grooves. 

"Wu  rose  too,  carried  the  sword,  and  put  it  beside  the 
gong.  "It  is  growing  dark,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 
IN  THE  PAGODA  AND  ON  THE  BENCH 

SO  long  as  he  may  live  Basil  Gregory  will  never  under 
stand  how  he  lived  through  those  hours  in  the  pagoda 
— his  last  hours  in  the  pagoda  by  the  lotus  lake.  So  long 
as  he  lives  he  must  remember  them,  and  shudder  newly 
at  each  remembering — waiting  again  in  torture  and  alone 
to  hear  the  deep-throated  damnation  of  Wu  Li  Chang's 
gong  telling  him  that — that  he  was  branded  forever, 
soul-scarred.  Wu  Li  Chang  had  hit  upon  something  that 
not  even  a  man  could  forget. 

How  he  got  there  he  never  knew.  He  remembered  be 
ing  taken  to  the  mandarin,  the  terrible  interview,  the 
news  of  Nang  Ping's  death,  the  demoniac  threat  of  his 
mother's  ordeal  and  agony,  but  nothing  of  his  return  to 
the  pagoda.  For  a  time — he  had  no  way  of  knowing  how 
long  or  how  brief — a  merciful  space  of  blank  had  been 
vouchsafed  him.  And  the  utmost  fury  need  not  have 
grudged  him  it.  For,  if  the  mother  in  the  house  suffered 
more  than  a  death,  the  son  in  the  pagoda,  when  conscious 
ness  crept  back,  suffered  her  sufferings  multiplied.  She 
was  his  mother,  and  he  loved  her.  Always  she  had  been 
very  good  to  him.  And  he  had  been  so  proud  of  her. 
Could  he  ever  feel  quite  that  pride  again?  Her  very 
sacrifice  must  smirch  her  in  the  eyes  of  the  son  for  whom 
it  was  made,  and  whose  crime  it  punished.  Even  his  love 
for  her  must  be  a  little  tarnished,  a  little  weaker,  after 
the  clang  out  of  that  brazen  gong.  Wu  Li  Chang  had 

265 


266  MR.  WU 

found  a  great  revenge.  His  own  honor  had  never 
burdened  Basil  Gregory;  but  his  mother's  honor — ah! 
Or,  for  that  matter,  even  Hilda's,  or  his  cousin  May  Greg 
ory's — for,  like  so  many  such  men,  Basil  Gregory 
leaned  his  soul  (such  as  he  had)  and  his  pride  upon  the 
women  of  his  blood.  To  be  virtuous  vicariously  is  a 
positive  talent  with  some  men. 

His  mother!  He  writhed.  His  mother!  He  tore 
against  the  pagoda 's  walls  with  his  hands,  all  pinioned  as 
they  were — for  his  freed  hand  was  bound  again — until 
his  knuckles  bled.  If  such  punishment  as  Wu  had  de 
vised  could  be  shown  vividly,  anticipatorily,  to  men  about 
to  stray,  the  gravest  of  the  social  problems  must  be  so 
somewhat  solved,  the  most  stinging  of  the  burning  ques 
tions  somewhat  answered.  If  sons,  light,  selfish,  weak, 
could  expect  such  chastisement  as  Basil  Gregory  was  en 
during  now,  a  famous  commandment  would  be  honored  in 
observance  an  hundredfold,  dishonored  by  breach 
miraculously  less.  A  daughter's  shame — a  sister's — that 
scourges  most  men;  a  wife's — oh!  well,  there  are  wives 
and  wives,  there  are  men  and  men,  but  a  mother's — ah! 
That  touches  all  manhood  on  its  quick.  Brand  the  scar 
let  initial  of  adultery  on  his  mother's  brow  in  punishment 
of  him,  and  what  son  would  commit  the  fault  ?  Fewer ! 

From  the  sun — for  there  were  spaces  pierced  in  the 
elaborate  stonework  of  the  pagoda's  thick  sides,  and  he 
could  see  through  some  of  them — he  thought  that  he  must 
have  escaped  nearly  an  hour  of  the  misery  of  conscious 
ness. 

Heaven  knows  the  scene  enacted  in  the  smaller 
audience  hall  was  exquisitely  terrible  enough;  but  the 
man  alone  in  the  pagoda  pictured  it  ten  times  more  ter 
rible,  more  hideous,  more  stenched  than  it  was.  Made 
an  artist  in  fiendishness  by  his  love  for  his  child,  Wu  was 


PAGODA  AND  BENCH  267 

most  fiendish,  most  exquisite,  in  his  enmaddening  de- 
liberateness.  He  drew  out  the  woman's  agony  until  the 
sinews  of  her  soul  seemed  to  crack  and  bleat.  The 
hideous  hour  seemed  an  age  to  her.  To  Basil,  waiting 
alone  in  the  pagoda,  the  hour  seemed  ages  piled  on  ages. 

Alone?  But  no,  he  was  not  alone.  This  was  Nang 
Ping's  pagoda.  She  had  given  him  "free"  of  it,  and 
shared  it  with  him.  She  shared  it  with  him  still.  A 
ghost — a  girlish  Chinese  ghost — stood  beside  him  and 
looked  at  him  adoringly,  accusingly,  with  death  and 
motherhood  in  her  eyes.  "Oh!  Nang  Ping!  Nang 
Ping !  Forgive,  forgive ! "  he  cried,  and  hid  his  face  on 
his  pinioned  arm.  Then  he  looked  up  with  a  cry — wide- 
eyed,  for  he  had  seen  his  mother  in  the  room  he'd  left,  the 
room  where  the  gong  was,  and  Wu — he  saw  his  mother, 
and  the  Chinese  moving  towards  her,  and  he  turned  and 
cursed  the  girl-ghost  at  his  side — the  poor  dishonored 
ghost  with  a  tiny  nestling  in  her  arms. 

Angry  at  punishment  self-entailed,  to  shift,  or  seek 
to  shift,  the  blame,  or  some  part  of  it,  upon  shoulders 
other  than  our  own,  is  a  common  phase  of  human  frailty. 
"The  woman  tempted  me."  And  so  the  fault  is  really 
hers.  Punish  the  temptress  and  let  me  go.  "The 
woman  tempted  me":  it  is  the  oldest  and  the  meanest 
of  the  complaints.  But  sadly  often  it  is  true  enough. 

A  man  never  had  less  cause  to  urge  it,  in  self -extenua 
tion,  or  even  in  explanation,  than  Basil  Gregory  had. 
Nang  Ping  had  never  tempted  him.  Even  in  the  con 
summation  of  their  loves,  the  heyday  of  her  infatuation, 
she  had  never  wooed  him.  In  their  first  acquaintance, 
contrived  in  part  by  him,  brought  about  in  part  by  a  fan 
of  Low  Soong-'s,  lost  and  found,  Nang  Ping  had  been  as 
shy  and  unassertive  as  a  violet.  She  had  never  tempted 
except  with  her  own  sweet  reserve  and  the  fragrant 
piquancy  of  her  picturesque  novelty.  And  that  she  had 


268  MR.  WU 

not  sought  him,  or,  for  some  time,  allowed  him  advance, 
had  been  her  chief  charm  for  him.  And  on  the  day  that 
he  had  told  her  that  he  was  returning  to  Europe,  and  at 
once,  leaving  her  to  face  their  dilemma  alone,  she  had 
uttered  no  reproach,  made  no  outcry — just  a  quiet  ex 
postulation  abandoned  as  soon  as  made.  "You  will  not 
come  back, ' '  she  had  said  quietly,  and  had  gone  from  him 
calmly,  with  dignity. 

Never  lover  had  less  just  cause  to  reproach  mistress 
than  he  had  to  reproach  or  blame  Nang  Ping.  But  for 
his  mother's  sake,  and,  too,  perhaps,  for  his  craven  own, 
he  did,  and  cursed  the  girl  who  had  died  for  him,  as  he 
raged  futilely  here  in  the  pagoda,  where  he  had  taken, 
and  she  had  given,  her  all. 

It  is  a  big  thing  to  be  a  manly  man. 

It  is  a  tragedy  to  be  a  woman — except  when  it's  the 
very  best  of  great  good  luck. 

Very  little  of  the  good  luck  of  life,  very  little  of  the 
joyousness  of  womanhood,  had  ever  been  Ah  Wong's. 
All  her  life  she  had  worked  hard  for  scant  pay  and  no 
thanks.  All  her  life  she  had  yearned  passionately  for 
companionship,  and  been  lonely.  From  a  brutal  father 
she  had  escaped  to  a  brutal  husband.  Her  children  were 
dead,  and  had  not  promised  much  while  they  lived. 
God  knows,  Mrs.  Gregory  had  given  her  little  enough — al 
most  nothing.  And  yet  Mrs.  Gregory  had  given  her  her 
best  time — the  nearest  approach  to  a  "good  time"  she'd 
ever  known.  And  she  was  pathetically  grateful  to  have 
had  even  so  much  of  creature  comfort,  such  crumbs  of 
kindness,  so  shabby  and  lukewarm  a  sipping  of  the  wine 
of  life.  The  Englishwoman  did  not  even  know  that  she 
had  been  kind  to  the  amah.  Indeed,  Ah  Wong  had 


PAGODA  AND  BENCH  269 

merely  warmed  her  cramped  and  frozen  being  in  the 
careless  overflow  of  a  nature  that,  by  happy  accident,  was 
full  of  sunshine  and  brimmed  with  radiance. 

Ah  Wong  was  grateful,  and  Ah  Wong  was  honest. 
She  meant  to  repay.  She  hated  debt ;  almost  all  Chinese 
do.  She  had  loyalty.  She  had  grit.  She  had  Chinese 
wit.  And  she  had  the  light  wrist  of  her  sex  at  subter 
fuge  :  it  is  world-wide. 

Ejected  from  the  house,  she  sat  down  contentedly  in 
the  courtyard  and  began  to  knit — an  industry  foreign  to 
Chinese  eyes.  It  brought  curious  women  of  the  house 
hold  about  her.  She  had  intended  that  it  should.  They 
brought  her  liangkao  and  melon  seeds — for  hospitality 
was  the  rule  of  the  house — and  she  ate  all  the  liangkao 
and  cracked  all  the  melon  seeds  while  the  other  women 
chattered  to  her  and  to  each  other. 

She  said  that  she  was  very  tired — her  lady  was  a  hard 
taskmistress.  She  didn't  like  the  English.  She  was 
very  tired,  but  she'd  like  to  see  something  of  so  beauti 
ful  a  place,  now  that  she  was  here,  and  she  tottered  about 
a  little  wearily  from  treasure  to  treasure,  but  never  far 
from  the  house,  from  tiny  forest  trees  a  few  inches  high, 
in  pots  the  size  of  thimbles,  to  an  evergreen  that  was  a 
century  old  and  that  had  its  widest  branches  cut  into 
birds  in  full  flight.  She  cried  out  in  ecstasy  at  a  great 
dragon  sprawling  on  the  grass,  a  dragon  of  geraniums 
and  foliage  plants.  And  presently  she  yawned  and  said 
that  she  was  very  tired,  and  sat  down  heavily  on  a  carved 
stone  bench.  After  a  little  she  fell  asleep,  and  the  women 
giggled  at  her  good-naturedly  and  left  her.  The  bench 
was  not  far  from  the  window  that  high  up  looked  into 
the  mandarin's  sitting-room. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 
THE  FAN 

IT  is  growing  dark,"  Wu  said,  as  he  put  the  sword  down 
beside  the  gong. 

Three  other  servants  followed  Ah  Sing  through  the 
sliding  door  that  he  had  opened  from  the  other  side. 
Two  were  tea-bearers  and  the  other  a  servant  of  the 
lamps.  r 

The  tray  of  tea  was  laid  on  the  table.  The  lamp-man 
moved  about  the  room,  and  a  dozen  dim  lights  broke  out, 
like  disks  of  radiant  alabaster,  so  dim,  so  beautiful,  and 
so  unexpectedly  placed  that  their  shrouded  brilliance 
made  the  wonderful  room  seem  even  eerier  than  before. 

The  woman  watched  it  all,  inert  and  motionless.  She 
felt,  without  thinking  about  it — she  was  almost  worn  past 
thinking  now — how  more  than  useless  it  would  be  to  ap 
peal  to  these  wooden-faced  Chinese,  the  creatures  and 
automatons  of  Wu  Li  Chang.  And  an  instinct  of  dignity 
that  was  very  English  held  her  from  making  to  foreign 
servants  a  prayer  that  would,  she  knew,  be  denied.  She 
would  make  no  exhibition  of  a  plight  they  would  not  pity 
or  of  an  emotion  that  would  not  move  them — unless  it 
moved  them  to  mirth. 

But  when,  their  service  done,  the  servants  went  out, 
soft-footed  as  they  had  come,  and  after  the  door  closed, 
bolts  clanged,  she  realized  that  she  and  Wu  were  again 
alone — the  room  locked — and  she  sprang  up  and  dashed 
to  the  door. 

270 


THE  FAN  271 

"Wu  watched  her,  smiling.  "Come,"  he  said — almost 
as  he  might  have  spoken  to  a  restless  child — "tea  is 
served." 

And  she  turned,  in  obedience  to  his  voice,  and  looked 
at  him.  "I  couldn't,  Mr.  "Wu,"  she  said  with  plaintive 
petulance,  "I  couldn't  possibly."  The  distress  in  her 
voice  was  more  than  the  annoyance. 

Wu  ignored  her  words  good-naturedly,  and  began 
pouring  out  the  tea.  ' '  I  have  sugar  and  cream,  you  see, 
quite  in  the  Western  way. ' ' 

"No — no,  I  couldn't,"  she  reiterated  impatiently,  but 
coming  back  to  the  table  and  watching  the  cups  as  he 
filled  them.  "Please  tell  me  of  my  son  and  let  me  go." 

For  answer,  the  mandarin  held  out  to  her  a  cup  of 
tea.  "Pray  take  this  cup  of  tea,  Mrs.  Gregory,"  he  said 
with  grave  politeness.  "Oh!  I  understand,"  he  added 
with  a  slight,  chill  smile,  when  she  paid  no  attention  to 
the  cup  he  proffered  her.  He  put  it  down.  ' '  You  would 
prefer  to  see  me  drink  first."  With  an  inclination  of 
his  head  to  her,  he  lifted  his  own  cup  and  drained  it  at 
a  draught.  "  So !  perhaps  that  will  reassure  you. ' '  He 
put  his  cup  down  and  refilled  it.  "Pray  take  the  tea," 
he  urged  hospitably:  "it  will  not  only  be  refreshing — 
and  your  lips  look  dry  and  parched — but  it  will  also  be 
a  politeness  to  do  so. ' ' 

She  stood  looking  at  him  dully,  and  then  sank  slowly 
down  on  to  a  stool. 

"Sugar — and — cream,"  the  mandarin  said  brightly. 
There  was  more  of  Mayfair  and  of  Oxford  in  tone  and  in 
manner  than  there  was  of  Cathay.  And  the  anachronism 
was  gruesome  rather  than  droll,  as  he  stood  in  his 
mandarin's  robes  fanning  himself  with  his  left  hand  (the 
sons  of  Han  are  more  nearly  ambidextrous  than  they  of 
any  other  race)  and  with  his  right  hand  plying  the 


272  MR.  WU 

silver  sugar-tongs  with  slow  dexterity.  "So!"  he  held 
out  the  perfected  cup.  "It  is  the  choicest  growth  of  the 
Empire,  Mrs.  Gregory,  sun-dried  with  the  flowers  of  jas. 
mine. ' ' 

She  took  the  cup,  and  he  took  up  his.  Just  as  she 
was  forcing  herself  to  drink — his  own  cup  almost  to  his 
lip — he  said  with  the  same  suave  manner,  "Have  you 
no  curiosity,  Mrs.  Gregory,  to  learn  the  name ' ' — a  poison 
ous  change  came  in  his  voice — "of  my  daughter's  se 
ducer?" 

The  Englishwoman  put  down  her  cup  quickly,  with 
a  hand  so  unnerved  and  trembling  that  it  scarcely  served 
to  guide  its  small  burden.  She  tried  to  drop  her  <yes, 
but  she  couldn't — he  held  them  with  his  relentlessly.  *'I 
don't  understand  you,"  she  faltered.  "Your — your 
manner  is  so  strange." 

Wu  said  nothing,  but  he  smiled  into  her  gaze  coldly, 
and  she  rose  with  a  shudder.  Wu  smiled  at  her  still, 
and  with  a  sudden  wild  cry  she  darted  to  the  sliding  doors 
and  beat  on  them  hysterically.  But  she  realized  at  once 
that  they  were  locked  and  were  strong.  And  she  turned 
around,  at  bay  but  hopeless,  leaning  her  back  against  the 
door,  and  faced  "Wu  miserably,  her  smarting  hands 
hanging  limp  at  her  sides. 

"Wu  Li  Chang  unfolded  his  fan  and  began  to  churn 
the  air  towards  his  face  with  it. 

No  European  ever  has  understood  what  his  fan  means 
to  a  Chinese.  Probably  no  European  ever  will  be  able 
to  understand  that.  With  their  fans  the  Chinese  hide 
emotion,  express  emotion,  and,  when  it  reaches  the  danger 
point,  give  it  vent.  Often  a  Chinese  man's  frail,  tiny 
fan  is  his  safety  valve.  China's  greatest  warriors  have 
carried  their  fans  into  battle.  Criminals  fan  themselves 
on  the  execution  ground.  Frightened  Chinese  girls,  in 


THE  FAN  273 

the  torment  of  first  child-birth,  fan  themselves.  Wu 
was  fanning  himself  in  triumph.  And  he  spoke  to  her 
quickly,  his  voice  ringing  with  triumph.  "There  are 
several  ways  into  this  room,  Mrs.  Gregory,  but  only  one 
way  out."  The  fan  shut  with  an  ominous  click — a  rat 
tle  of  ivory,  a  hiss  and  a  rustle  of  silk.  ' '  It  lies  by  that 
door" — he  pointed  it  with  his  fan — "which  leads  to  my 
oufn  inner  chamber," 

The  woman  smothered  a  scream,  but  she  could  not 
smother  a  groan. 

Wu  laughed.  He  took  a  step  towards  her.  "Have 
you  no  desire  to  hear  my  news  of  your  son?"  he  asked 
softly.  "Good  news?  I  promised  that  you  should — 
I  am  here  to  keep  my  promise."  The  terrible  signifi 
cance  of  his  words  could  not  have  been  clearer,  but  he 
emphasized  it  hideously  .by  gliding  still  a  little  nearer  to 
the  stricken,  appalled  woman. 

"Oh!  don't  torture  me,"  she  implored,  moving  away. 
' '  He  is  well — comparatively.     His  hands  have  received 
a  trifling  injury — quite  trifling.     But  he  is  quite  well" 
— nearing  the  woman  again — "and  he  is  here." 
"Here?"  she  sobbed,  "here?" 

"Almost  wthin  sound  of  your  voice" — still  nearer. 

"O  my  God!  where?"  she  cried,  looking  about  her 

frantically.     The  third  door  caught  her  attention,  and 

she  ran  to  it  weakly  and  beat  against  it,  crying,  "Basil! 

Basil!" 

"Do  not  be  so  impetuous,  dear  lady,"  "Wu  said  with 
insolent  gentleness;  "I  did  not  say  he  was  there.  And 
it  is  not  good  that  he  should  hear  your  voice,  for  the 
sound  would  only  distress  him." 

She  looked  at  Wu  questioningly,  and  he  gave  her  the 
cruel  explanation.  "You  see,  he  is  not  at  liberty  to 
come  until  the  right  signal  is  given.  It  lies  with  you 


274  MR.  WU 

whether  that  signal  shall  be  given  or  not!"  He  was 
very  close  to  her  now. 

Wu  Li  Chang  intended  to  use  no  physical  force  with 
this  woman.  He  would  not  grant  her  degradation  even 
that  poor  loop-hole  of  excuse. 

That  she  would  yield,  he  had  no  doubt.  And  her  own 
tortured  soul  knew  that  it  wavered  now,  and  it  was  sick. 

Wu  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm.  And  she  scarcely 
shrank  back,  but  drew  herself  up,  proud  in  her  sorrow, 
and  said  slowly  in  his  smiling  face,  ' '  You — you  devil ! ' ' 

"Harsh  words  will  not  help  him,  Mrs.  Gregory,"  the 
mandarin  said.  "Only  one  thing  can."  Face  almost 
brushed  face — they  were  so  close. 

She  hid  hers  in  her  hands  and  sobbed  in  fear. 

"I  will  leave  you  whilst  you  decide,"  Wu  said,  and 
turned  to  the  door  that  was,  he  had  told  her,  her  only 
way  "out." 

In  a  sudden  fren2y  and  palsied  with  nausea,  she 
dashed  at  the  other  doors,  sobbing,  "Let  me  go!" — 
panting — "let  me  go,  I  tell  you!" 

Wu  watched  her  a  little  before  he  said  calmly,  still 
smiling  gravely,  "This  door  is  the  only  door  which 
remains  unlocked.  If  you  should  decide  to  enter  it 
before  I  return,  I  should  not  be  unresponsive  to  the 
honor  you  will  do  me.  If  not,  I  shall  return  soon  myself 
>—to  assist  you,  if  I  may,  to  decide." 

"My  husband  knows  that  I  have  come  here!"  Mrs. 
Gregory  cried  defiantly.  "I  told  him!"  (Wu  smiled.) 

"He  will  be  here  at  any  moment,  and  then !  Oh! 

I  am  not  afraid  of  you ! ' ' 

"Oh!  I  am  glad  of  that!"  Wu  Li  Chang  said  eagerly, 
' '  I  desire  only  to  inspire  trust — and  confidence — and  the 
tenderest  sympathy !  But  I  know  that  your  husband — 
that  amiable,  estimable  Mr.  Gregory — an  odd,  subtle 


THE  FAN  275 

creature,  but  so  lovable — does  not  know  you  are  here. 
You  have  not  the  remotest  hope  of  seeing  him — or  you 
would  not  have  told  me !  You  would  have  temporized — • 
delayed — said  nothing. ' ' 

"He  does  know!"  she  stormed.  "He  may  be  here 
at  any  moment !  And  if  he  is  not  admitted  he  will  bat 
ter  your  gates  and  doors  down!" 

The  mandarin  laughed  softly  and  shook  his  head  at 
her  indulgently. 

"You  scoundrel!"  she  told  him,  infuriated. 

"Oh!  I  forgive  your  trying  to  deceive  me,  Mrs. 
Gregory,"  Wu  said  calmly;  "it  is  only  natural.  Oh! 
that  window,"  he  added,  in  answer  to  an  involuntary 
look  toward  it.  "Yes,  it  leads  out  on  to  the  courtyard 
where  your  devoted  servant  is  waiting;  but  the  architect 
has  placed  it  so  very  high,  and  has  made  it  so  very  small. 
Now" — he  made  her  a  little  bow — "I  will  leave  you,  but 
not  for  long."  And  he  passed  through  the  unlocked 
door  and  closed  it  behind  him  very  gently. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

THE  GONG 

DISTRACTED,  not  knowing  what  she  did,  or  why, 
like  some  wild  thing  trapped  and  helpless,  Florence 
Gregory  looked  about  the  room,  searching  it  with  eyes 
almost  too  fright-blinded  for  sight.  Again  she  tried  the 
doors — all  but  one.  She  made  a  desperate,  useless  effort 
to  push  the  window  apart.  ' '  Basil ! ' '  she  cried, ' '  Basil ! ' ' 
Then  she  checked  herself.  "No!  I  mustn't  do  thatl 
0  God ! ' '  she  moaned,  turning  to  driven  humanity  s 
last  great  resort,  "help  me!" 

She  groped  her  way  unsteadily  across  the  room,  and 
climbed  with  trembling  legs  upon  the  bench  and  reached 
her  hands  up  toward  the  little  window. 

"No,"  she  sobbed  in  a  whisper,  "I  can't,"  for  she 
could  not  reach  to  half  the  opening 's  height.  She  looked 
about  her  stealthily,  rose  on  her  very  tiptoes,  and  called 
towards  the  window,  "Ah  Wong!  Ah  Wong!  can  you 
hear  me  ?  Go  quickly,  for  the  love  of  Heaven !  Fetch 
them!  Help  me,  Ah  Wong!  Help  me!  I  am  alone, 
Ah  Wong — but  he  will  be  back — very  soon.  Quick, 
amah,  quick!  Ah  Wong,  are  you  there?" 

And  then  she  waited. 

Oh!  that  waiting. 

There  was  no  sound  except  the  panting  of  her  heart. 
From  Wu's  inner  room  nothing  came  but  silence.  The 
house  and  the  garden  were  midnight-still. 

Ah! 

276 


THE  GONG  277 

Through  the  window  came  a  sound  so  soft  it  scarcely 
grazed  the  silence. 

Something  fell,  almost  noiselessly,  at  her  feet.  She 
swooped  upon  it  with  a  smothered  sob  of  thankfulness. 
It  was  her  own  scarf.  Her  hands  shook  so  she  could 
scarcely  unroll  it  for  the  message  or  the  help  it  hid. 
She  knew  it  hid  one  or  the  other,  or  Ah  "Wong  would 
not  have  thrown  it.  Or  was  it  only  a  signal  that  the 
other  woman  heard  her  ?  With  her  eyes  riveted  in  agony 
on  Wu's  door,  her  heart  beating  almost  to  her  suf 
focation,  her  cold  fingers  worked  distractedly  at  the 
matted  gauze.  Yes — there  was  something  there.  Oh! 
Ah  Wong!  Ah  Wong!  It  was  something  hard  and 
small. 

She  looked  at  the  tiny  phial  wonderingly.  But  only 
for  a  moment.  Then  she  knew.  And  her  white  face 
grew  whiter.  The  last  drop  of  coward  blood  dripped 
back  from  her  quivering  lips.  Poison,  of  course !  Must 
she?  Dared  she?  Could  she?  And  Basil?  The  boy 
that  she  had  borne — her  son  and  chum.  Should  she 
desert  him  so  ?  Save  her  honor  and  leave  him  to  death 
and  to  long  fiendish  torture  ten  thousand  times  worse 
than  death?  Was  any  price  too  great,  too  hideous  to 
pay  for  his  rescue  from  such  burning  hell?  To  so  save 
herself  at  such  cost  to  him,  was  not  that  an  even  greater 
dishonor  than  the  other?  The  woman  began  to  whim 
per,  like  some  terrified  child.  And  could  she  die? 
Could  she  face  such  death  ?  Here — all  alone — in  China  ? 
God  hear  her  prayer! — she  could  not  think  to  word  it. 
God  have  mercy!  Life  was  sweet — the  sun  warm  on 
the  grass.  And  there  were  cowslips  in  the  meadows  at 
home,  and  the  lilacs  were  wine-sweet,  and  the  roses  wine- 
red  against  the  sun-drenched  old  stone  wall  in  the  vic 
arage  garden — in  England. 


278  MR.  WU 

She  tottered,  sobbing  silently,  across  the  room,  clutch 
ing  the  phial  in  her  ice-cold  hand. 

England!  At  the  thought  of  England  she  stiffened 
— proudly.  She  was  English — and  a  woman.  English 
and  a  woman:  the  two  proudest  things  under  Heaven. 
Basil  must  suffer.  The  body  that  had  borne  him  must 
not,  even  for  him,  be  dishonored.  The  unalterable 
chastity  of  centuries  of  gentle  womanhood  reasserted 
itself  and  claimed  her — pure  of  soul,  pure  of  body- — 
claimed  her  and  made  her  proud  and  strong  as  it  had  the 
English  women  of  an  earlier  day  who  threw  themselves 
rejoicing  upon  the  horns  of  the  Roman  cattle  rather  than 
yield  themselves — English  women — to  the  lust  of  the 
Eoman  legionaries.  As  Abraham  had  prepared  to  sacri 
fice  Isaac — Abraham!  Abraham  was  only  a  man,  only 
a  father.  She  was  a  woman — she  was  a  mother — and 
English ! 

With  a  smile  as  cold  as  any  smile  of  Wu's,  and  more 
superb  than  smile  ever  ermined  on  the  lip  of  man — she 
looked  about  for  means:  determined  now — yet  hoping 
still  against  hope  for  escape.  She  would  die.  Oh  yes! 
she  would  die — here — now.  But  she  hoped  the  stuff 
was  not  too  bitter.  She  drew  out  the  cork  and  smelt 
the  liquid.  It  had  no  smell.  Or  had  fright  paralyzed 
her  gift  of  smell?  And  all  her  senses?  Her  fingers 
could  scarcely  feel  the  glass  they  clutched.  And  need 
she  drink  it  yet?  Help  might  come.  Surely  Ah  Wong 
had  gone!  But  dared  she  wait?  Wu  would  be  back. 
Hark !  Was  he  coming  ?  Did  his  door  move  ?  He  must 
not  see  her  drink  it.  He  would  prevent  her.  But  need 
she  die  quite  yet? 

She  saw  the  cup  of  tea  she  had  put  down,  and  gave  a 
little  gasp  of  hope:  at  such  poor  straws  do  we  clutch! 


THE  GONG  279 

"Yes — yes — she'd  pour  the  poison  into  her  tea — and 
drink  it,  if  she  must ! 

The  cup  was  full.  She  drank  a  little  chokingly.  That 
was  enough.  Koomnow!  She  looked  in  terror  at  Wu's 
door,  then  emptied  the  tiny  phial  into  her  cup. 

Wu  's  cup  did  not  occur  to  her — she  was  too  distraught. 

Shaking  pitifully,  she  wound  the  scarf  again  about  the 
little  bottle  and  dropped  both  into  a  satsuma  vase. 

She  tottered  gropingly  back  to  her  seat  beside  the 
table,  the  poisoned  cup  close  to  her  hand.  "My  God!" 
she  whispered,  not  to  herself,  "if  it  must  come  to  that, 
give  me  strength." 

Until  the  door  opened  and  Wu  came  in,  she  sat  cower 
ing,  her  eyes  riveted  on  her  cup,  her  fingers  knotting  and 
unknotting  in  her  lap,  and  under  the  lace  of  her  sleeve 
the  costly  jewel  she  had  worn  to  pay  honor  to  Sing 
Kung  Yah  winked  and  danced. 

She  did  not  look  up  at  the  mandarin's  step,  and  for 
a  space  he  stood  and  studied  her,  hatred  and  contempt 
for  Basil  Gregory 's  mother  ugly  on  his  face,  pity  for  his 
vicarious  victim — and  she  a  woman — in  his  Chinese  eyes. 
And  in  his  heart  there  was  self-pity  too:  his  sacrificial 
office  was  in  no  way  to  the  liking  of  Wu  Li  Chang.  He 
was  sacrificing  to  his  ancestors  and  to  his  gods.  But 
the  flesh  reeking  from  his  priestly  knife,  hissing  in  the 
fire,  smoking  on  the  altar  of  his  tremendous  rage,  was 
repugnant  to  his  appetite,  a  stench  in  the  nostrils  of 
this  Chinese. 

He  wore  now  loosened  garments  of  crimson  crepe — 
color  and  stuff  an  Empress  might  don  for  her  bridal. 
He  carried  no  fan.  It  was  laid  away.  But  on  the  hem 
of  his  gorgeous  negligee  a  border  of  peacocks'  'feathers 
was  embroidered,  each  plume  the  fine  work  of  an  artist. 


280  MR.  WU 

"Well,  chere  madamc!"  he  said  softly,  and  then  she 
looked  up  and  saw  him  and  his  relentless  purpose,  and 
shrank  back  with  a  little  moan. 

Wu  smiled  and  drew  nearer.  "Do  I  now  find  favor 
in  your  eyes?"  he  murmured  wickedly — insinuation  and 
masterly  in  his  honeyed  tone.  "No ?  Oh !  unhappy  Wu 
Li  Chang!  My  heart  bleeds,  stabbed  by  your  coldness, 
you  lovely  and  oh !  so  desired  English  creature,  you  fair, 
fair  rose  of  English  womanhood.  Ah!  well — I  have  no 
vanity,  luckily  for  me,  and  so  that  is  not  hurt  also,  since 
it  does  not  exist.  One  important  matter,"  he  said,  al 
most  at  his  side,  drawing  slowly  nearer  still,  "I  did  not 
mention.  It  is  only  fair  that  you  should  understand 
fully  my  terms — only  fair  to  say  that  your  son  knows 
that  your  sacrifice  will  set  him  free " 

Florence  Gregory  rose  to  her  feet.  She  searched  his 
face.  "You — you  will  set  him  free?" 

Wu  Li  Chang  bowed  his  head  in  promise.  And  she 
did  not  for  one  instant  doubt  his  word.  It  was  her 
unconscious  tribute  paid  to  his  individuality — and,  too, 
it  was  tribute  of  Christian  Europe  to  heathen  China. 
Undeserved?  That's  as  you  read  history  and  the  sorry 
story  of  the  treaty  ports.  Verdicts  differ. 

"That,  of  course,  is  understood — and  pledged,"  the 
mandarin  said  quietly,  "when — you — have  paid — his 
debt." 

She  shuddered  sickly.  Wu  smiled,  and  then  his 
choler  broke  a  little  through  its  smooth  veneer.  "It 
is  just  payment  I  exact — no  jot  of  usury:  virtue  for 
virtue.  I  might  have  seized  your  daughter — for  myself, 
or  to  toss  to  one  of  my  servants — but  that  could  not 
have  been  payment  in  full.  You,  you  in  your  country, 
you  of  your  race,  prize  virginity  above  all  else;  we 
hold  maternity  to  be  the  highest  expression  of  human 


THE  GONG  281 

being,  and  the  most  sacred.  So,  because  he  took  what 
should  have  been  most  sacred  in  the  eyes  of  an  English 
gentleman — and  he  a  guest,  both  in  my  daughter's  coun 
try  and  in  her  home — I  take  what  is,  in  my  eyes,  a 
higher,  purer  thing — and  I  your  host.  And,  too" — his 
voice  hissed  and  quivered  with  hate — "the  degradation 
of  his  sister  would  not  have  afflicted  him  enough — he 
does  not  love  his  sister  with  any  great  love.  His  love  of 
you,  his  mother,  is  the  one  quality  of  manhood  in  his 
abominable  being.  He  would  have  suffered  at  her  shame 
and  outlived  the  pain ;  yours  he  will  remember  while  he 
lives — and  writhe.  It  will  spoil  his  life,  make  every 
hour  of  his  life  more  bitter  than  any  death,  every  inch 
of  earth  a  burning  hell."  He  paused  and  waited,  and 
then — he  slid  behind  the  table,  put  his  arms  about  the 
palsied  woman,  and  whispered,  pointing  to  the  other 
room,  his  face  brushing  hers,  "And  now,  dear  lady,  will 
you  not  come  to  me?" 

For  an  instant  they  two  stood  so — she  paralyzed,  un 
able  to  move. 

Music  high  and  sublimely  sweet  pierced  through  the 
shuttered  window:  a  nightingale  was  singing  in  Nang 
Ping's  garden,  near  the  pagoda  by  the  lotus  lake.  Wu 
Li  Chang  had  heard  many  nightingales,  and  from  his 
babyhood.  Florence  Gregory  had  heard  but  one  before 
— once,  long  ago,  in  England. 

She  wrenched  away  from  "Wu  with  a  cry — of  despair ; 
and  he  let  her  go. 

She  sank  on  to  her  stool  and  took  up  her  cup — she 
tried  to  do  it  meaninglessly — and  slowly  raised  it  to  her 
lips. 

"Oh!"  Wu  told  her  tenderly,  "my  lips  also  are  dry 
and  parched  with  the  heat  of  my  desire " 

But  he  had  no  desire  of  her.    And  even  in  her  torment 


282  MR.  WU 

she  knew  it,  and  that  in  the  coldness  of  his  intention 
lay  the  inflexibility  of  her  peril. 

"I  too  would  drink."  He  lifted  up  his  own  cup. 
"Ah!"  he  exclaimed,  putting  it  quickly  down  again, 
"I  see  that  you  have  sipped  from  your  cup — your  lips 
have  blessed  its  rim. ' '  Standing  behind  her,  he  slipped 
his  hands  slowly  about  her  neck,  took  her  cup  in  them, 
and  lifted  it  over  her  head,  and  faced  her.  ''Let  me  also 
drink  from  the  cup  that  has  touched  your  lovely  lips." 

With  a  cruel  look  of  mock  love — to  torment  her  even 
this  little  more,  and  in  no  way  because  he  suspected  the 
contents  of  either  cup — with  a  slow  look  into  her  terror- 
dilating  eyes,  he  slowly  drained  the  cup.  And  Florence 
Gregory  watched  him,  motionless,  horror-stricken — 
scarcely  realizing  that  he  had  given  her  her  release — by 
a  way  it  had  not  occurred  to  her  even  to  attempt. 

"So,"  Wu  said,  putting  down  the  cup,  "I  have  paid 
you  the  highest  compliment.  For  I  do  not  like  your 
sugar  or  your  cream.  Indeed,  I  cannot  imagine  how 

any  one  can  spoil  the  delicious  beverage "    His  voice 

broke  on  the  word.  Something  gurgled  in  his  throat. 
"It  was  even  nastier  than  I  thought,"  he  whispered 
hoarsely. 

Suddenly  he  reeled.  He  staggered  and  caught  at  the 
table's  edge.  Had  he  gone  drunk,  he  wondered,  with 
the  intoxication  of  his  smothered,  inexorable  rage  ?  The 
room  was  spinning  like  a  top  plaything.  His  head 
ached.  He  thought  a  vein  must  burst.  The  room  was 
turning  more  maddeningly  now — like  a  dervish  at  the 
climax  of  his  dance.  And  he  was  spinning  too — not  with 
the  room  but  in  a  counter-circle.  He  tottered  to  a  stool 
and  sank  on  to  it,  his  face  horribly  contorted  with  pain. 

Mrs.  Gregory  moaned,  half  in  fear  for  herself,  half 


THE  GONG  283 

in  horror  at  the  ugly  agony  from  which  she  could  not 
take  her  eyes.     She  moaned,  and  then  Wu  knew. 

He  gripped  the  table  with  hands  as  contorted  as  his 
face,  and  leaned  towards  her  muttering  in  his  own 
Chinese  words  of  terrible  imprecation  of  her  and  hers. 
Curses  and  hatred  beyond  words  even  the  most  terrible 
blazed  from  his  dying  eyes. 

He  was  dying  like  a  dog — outwitted  by  an  English 
woman.  And  then  he  laughed,  a  laugh  more  terrible 
than  the  death-rattle  already  crackling  in  his  throat  like 
spun  glass  burning  or  dry  salt  aflame :  the  damned  burn 
ing  may  laugh  so.  Dying  like  a  pariah  dog!  He 
laughed  with  glee — hell's  own  mirth;  for  now  the  signal 
would  never  be  given,  the  Englishman  would  never  go 
free.  He  would  starve  and  rot  in  Nang  Ping's  pagoda. 
Did  she  realize  that  ?  Oh !  for  the  strength  to  make  her 
know  it !  But  only  Chinese  words  would  come  to  his 
thickening  tongue  or  to  his  reeling  brain.  Of  all  that  he 
had  learned  or  known  of  English,  or  of  the  England 
where  he  had  lived  so  long,  nothing  was  left  him — noth 
ing  but  his  hate. 

Was  it  for  this — this  death  degraded  and  worse  than 
alone,  no  son  to  worship  at  his  tomb — that  Wu  Ching  Yu 
had  banished  him  to  exile  and  to  excruciating  home 
sickness  ? 

Where  was  the  old  sword?  He  would  slay  this 
foreign  devil  where  she  stood.  Who  was  she?  Why 
was  she  here — here  in  the  room  with  the  tablets  of  his 
ancestors?  Who  was  she?  Ah!  he  remembered  now: 
she  was  the  mother-pig — the  foul  thing  that  had  borne 
the  seducer  of  Nang  Ping! 

With  a  hideous  yell,  with  a  supreme  effort,  he  tottered 
to  his  feet  and  lunged  at  her  with  his  writhing  hands 


284  MR.  WU 

outstretched  like  claws,  his  feet  fumbling  beneath  him. 
She  shrank  back  in  terror,  and  raised  her  arm  as  if 
to  ward  off  a  blow. 

And  the  jewel  on  her  arm  slipped  down  and  flashed 
and  blazed  and  jangled  on  her  wrist. 

And  Wu  Li  Chang  knew  it.  His  eyes  were  glazing 
now  and  setting  in  death,  but  he  knew  her  too.  He 
remembered  now — Oxford,  the  purgatory  of  Portland 
Place,  the  country  vicarage,  an  organ  he'd  given  a 
church,  an  English  girl  he  had  liked  and  befriended  in 
a  gentle,  reverent  way.  And  this — this — was  the  reap 
ing  of  the  kindness  and  the  tolerance  he  had  sown — in 
England ! 

Rage  heroic  and  terrible  convulsed  and  nerved  him. 
With  an  effort  that  almost  tore  the  sinews  of  his  passing 
soul  asunder  he  turned  and  looked — yes — there  it  was 
— he  wanted  it — he  reached  it — and  with  a  scream  of 
fury  he  caught  it  up — the  sword — and  lunged  again  at 
the  woman  cringing  and  panting  there — he  gained  upon 
her — she  screamed  and  ran  from  him  feebly — he  followed 
— he  lifted  the  great  weapon  and  clove  the  air — he 
struck  out  wildly  with  it  again,  and  again  cut  only  the 
air. 

Twice  they  circled  the  room — she  sobbing  in  terror, 
he  blubbering  with  rage  and  with  the  agony  of  death. 

Ah!  he  had  almost  reached  her.  One  more  effort  I— 
he  knew  it  was  his  last. 

He  raised  the  sword  with  both  his  hands,  raised  it 
above  his  head,  and  struck. 

It  only  missed  her,  and  in  missing  her  it  struck  the 
gong — once,  then  twice. 

At  the  tragedy  of  that  miscarriage,  life  throbbed  again 
through  all  his  tortured  pores.  Meaning  to  kill,  he  had 
saved.  And  he  had  released  the  Englishman.  That 


THE  GONG  285 

knowledge  broke  his  heart — a  mighty  Chinese  heart — 
the  great  heart  of  the  mandarin  Wu  Li  Chang. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  very  still,  motionless  but  not 
quelled,  silent,  superb  in  his  defeat.  And  then  he  fell, 
and  moved  no  more. 

When  Florence  Gregory  looked  about  her — when  she 
was  able  to — the  doors  were  open,  and  the  wide  window 
opened  noiselessly  from  without.  No  one  had  entered 
the  room.  They  were  quite  alone,  she  and  what  had 
been  Wu  Li  Chang.  And  there  was  not  a  sound  except 
the  love-sick  ecstasy  of  a  nightingale  singing  his  devoted 
desire  through  the  jasmine-scented  garden. 

Very  slowly,  horror-stricken,  watching  him  till  the 
last,  she  crept  from  the  room,  leaving  it,  by  chance, 
through  the  door  at  which  she  had  entered  it. 

She  had  aged  in  that  room. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

AFTERWARDS 

AS  she  passed  from  the  house  into  the  garden,  moving 
erazily  on — not  knowing  why,  how  or  where — the 
frenzied  mother  met  her  son  coming  blindly  toward  the 
door,  his  arms  still  trussed  at  his  sides. 

Neither  could  speak. 

But  a  Chinese  woman,  coming  to  them  stealthily 
through  the  gloaming,  spoke  as  she  reached  them, 
"dome,  me  tlake,"  she  said. 

And  almost  literally  she  did  take  them,  one  on  either 
side  of  her,  each  touched  by  her  hand,  impelled  by  her 
will. 

"No  talk,"  she  whispered  sternly. 

But  she  need  not  have  said  it.  Neither  of  them  had 
word  or  voice. 

They  met  no  one.  They  heard  nothing — except  once 
the  far-off  trilling  of  a  nightingale,  telling  the  day 
good-by. 

For  such  was  the  quality  of  Wu  Li  Chang.  He  had 
commanded  the  servants  to  their  quarters,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  estate,  when  they  should  have  undone  the 
doors  and  gates. 

But  Ah  Wong  did  not  slacken  her  anxious  pace,  or 
let  them  slacken  theirs,  until  the  shore  was  almost 
reached. 

Then,  just  before  they  were  within  sight  of  the  waiting 

286 


AFTERWARDS  287 

boat  and  of  the  boatmen's  eyes,  she  stopped  and  untied 
Basil's  arms.  It  was  not  easy  work,  although  she  had 
a  knife.  And  Mrs.  Gregory  could  give  no  help. 

They  stumbled  into  the  boat  as  best  they  eould,  but 
not  without  aiding  hands,  the  mother  and  son.  Ah 
Wong  scrambled  in  nimbly.  And  at  a  word  from  her 
the  watermen  lifted  their  poles — and  they  had  left  Kow- 
loon. 

They  leaned  against  each  other,  the  English  mother 
and  her  boy,  as  the  small  craft  crossed  the  bay,  but  not 
a  word  was  spoken  by  either  of  them  or  to  either  of 
them.  They  huddled  together  dumb  with  relief  and 
with  exhaustion,  and  almost  numb  with  the  horror  they 
had  known. 

Unobtrusive,  stolid,  commonplace  in  manner  as  in 
her  humble  amah  garb,  Ah  Wong  directed  and  enforced 
everything. 

Ten  million  stars  came  out  and  specked  with  diamond 
dust  the  grave,  blue  sky.  The  moon  came  up  and  rippled 
with  silver  and  with  gold  the  rippling  water.  And  be 
fore  the  night-flowers  of  Kowloon  had  ceased  to  lave 
their  faces  with  the  fragrance  which  was  " good-night," 
the  fragrance  of  the  night-flowers  of  Hong  Kong  Island 
rushed  out  to  them  and  buffeted  them  with  sweetness. 

The  world  was  very  placid.  The  night  was  radiant. 
The  night  was  very  still.  And  the  smiling  indifference 
of  the  night  was  cruel.  At  least,  the  English  woman 
felt  it  so.  Basil  felt  nothing.  Ah  Wong  was  scheming. 

She  disembarked  them.  She  paid  the  boatmen.  She 
tidied  her  mistress,  and  tidied  Basil  as  best  she  could. 
She  got  them  up  the  Peak,  and  she  smuggled  them  into 
the  hotel  at  last,  almost  unobserved. 

"Too  tlired  talk  to-night,"  she  told  Hilda  impera 
tively.  And  she  said  it  as  imperatively  to  Robert  Greg- 


288  MR.  WU 

ory  himself  when  he  hurried  in  from  the  office  in  answer 
to  Hilda's  telephoned  good  news. 

It  was  Ah  Wong  who  sent  the  news  of  Basil  Gregory's 
safe  return  spreading  like  wildest  fire  through  gossipy 
Hong  Kong — not  only  the  news  of  the  return  but  the 
detailed  story  of  his  absence.  It  was  a  very  pretty  story, 
and 'beautifully  simple:  nothing  more  out  of  the  common 
than  a  slightly  sprained  ankle  and  an  undelivered  chit. 
The  chit  had  been  entrusted  to  one  vellee  bad  coolie  man 
— needless  to  say,  a  victim  of  the  opium  habit  of  which 
one  hears  so  much  in  books  on  China  and  sees  so  ab 
surdly  little  in  China  itself.  Some  believed  the  story — 
as  started  by  Ah  Wong — some  did  not.  But  it  might 
have  been  true  (a  merit  such  fabrications  often  lack)  and 
it  served,  although  one  cynic  at  the  English  Club  said  of 
it  that  it  reminded  him  of  the  curate's  celebrated  egg, 
" quite  good  in  parts." 

And  John  Bradley  wondered. 

But  the  next  day  the  Gregorys  and  their  affairs  were 
well-nigh  forgotten  in  the  greater  flare  of  news  that 
flamed  from  the  mainland.  Mr.  Wu  was  dead,  and  so 
was  his  daughter,  an  only  child.  She  had  died  suddenly, 
and  the  shock  had  killed  him — his  heart,  you  know — 
fatty  degeneration,  probably — all  those  rich  Chinamen 
over-eat. 

Again,  some  believed  the  story  as  it  was  told,  and 
more  did  not.  But  Wu  had  died  on  the  mainland,  not 
on  English  soil,  and  it  was  no  one's  business  in  Hong 
Kong. 

John  Bradley 's  face  grew  very  stern  when  he  heard 
that  Wu  Li  Chang  had  "become  a  guest  on  high/'  and 
he  went  at  once  to  Kowloon.  And,  almost  to  his  sur 
prise,  Ah  Sing  admitted  him.  The  mandaritt  would 
have  commanded  it  so,  Ah  Sing  thought. 


AFTERWARDS  289 

Bradley  learnt  nothing  on  the  mainland.  He  saw  his 
dead  friend,  and  prayed  an  English  prayer  beside  him, 
kneeling  down  between  him  and  a  grinning,  long,  red- 
tongued  Chinese,  god.  That  was  all. 

"When  he  reached  his  own  bungalow,  he  went  into 
his  tiny  study,  locked  its  door,  and  knelt  again — at  the 
prie-Dieu  that  stood  against  the  wall  between  the  little 
silver  crucifix  and  an  engraving  of  a  tender,  sorrowful 
face  beneath  a  crown  of  thorns. 

Between  the  elder  Gregory's  relief  at  his  son's  return 
and  his  exultation  at  Wu's  death,  the  younger  Gregory 
came  off  nearly  scot-free  of  paternal  reprimand,  and 
quite  free  of  any  real  parental  wrath. 

"Where  the  very  dickens  have  you  been?"  was  the 
father 's  greeting  when  they  met  at  breakfast.  ' '  A  pretty 
state  we've  been  in! — upsetting  the  entire  family — and 
me — and  the  business !  You  shall  answer  to  me  for  this, 
young  man.  Why  the  devil  don 't  you  pass  that  toast  ? ' ' 

"I've — I've  only  been  a  short  trip,  pater,  off  the 
island,"  Basil  replied,  not  greatly  perturbed. 

"I'll  short  trip  you!"  the  father  said  with  beetling 
brows;  and  the  tone  in  which  he  laconically  said, 
"More,"  as  he  thrust  his  coffee  cup  to  Hilda  was  very 
fierce  indeed,  but  he  winked  at  her  with  just  the  corner 
of  his  left  eye;  Basil  was  on  his  other  side.  And  pres 
ently  Eobert  Gregory  chuckled  openly  as  he  helped  him 
self  to  marmalade.  And  when  he  was  leaving  the  table 
he  slapped  his  boy  on  the  back,  but  not  too  roughly. 

"Dead  broke?"  he  demanded, 

Basil  was  about  to  say,  "No,  indeed!"  but  he  caught 
Ah  Wong's  sudden  eye,  and  said  instead,  "Well,  yes, 
I'm  afraid  I  am  rather." 

Robert  Gregory  chuckled  again.  "I've  a  damned 
good  notion  to  send  you  home  in  the  steerage — jolly 


290  MR.  WU 

good  idea;  and  while  I'm  thinking  it  over,  you'd  better 
mind  your  P  's  and  your  little  Q  's.  Show  up  at  the  office 
about  three,  and  I  dare  say  I'll  be  ass  enough  to  find  yon 
a  fiver." 

Hilda  followed  her  father  to  the  door.  She  always 
"saw  him  off." 

Ah  Wong  at  the  sideboard  continued  to  select  tit-bits 
for  the  tray  she  was  going  to  carry  to  her  mistress 's  room. 
She  intended,  by  fair  means  or  by  foul,  to  coax  Florence 
Gregory  to  eat. 

Basil  pushed  back  his  plate.  He  had  been  pretending 
to  eat,  but  the  food  was  revolting. 

He  was  longing  to  see  his  mother,  and  he  was  dreading 
it.  They  had  not  spoken  together  yet. 

He  was  terribly  anxious  to  know  if  there  were  any 
truth  in  the  report  of  "Wu's  death.  Probably  Ah  "Wong 
knew.  He  looked  at  her  curiously  as  she  carried  her  tray 
away;  but  somehow  he  could  not  question  her. 

On  the  whole,  he  wished  his  mother  would  send  for 
him  and  get  it  over.  This  suspense  was  only  a  little  less 
terrible  than  his  suspense  in  the  pagoda  had  been. 

But  all  Robert  Gregory's  anxieties  were  laid.  He 
reached  the  office  in  high  good  humor.  Government 
House  confirmed  the  rumor  of  Wu's  death.  And  Greg 
ory  felt  assured  that,  his  formidable  (for  the  Chink  had 
been  formidable)  rival  wiped  out,  the  only  heavy  dis 
asters  that  had  ever  threatened  his  own  almost  monoton 
ously  successful  business  career  would  disperse  under 
his  astute,  firm  management  as  summer  clouds  beneath 
the  sun,  and  that  disaster  would  not  menace  him  again. 
And  by  the  time  he  reached  the  club  for  lunch,  he 
was  quite  too  highly  pleased  with  himself  and  with  his 
world,  and  more  particularly  with  his  share  in  it,  to  keep 
up  any  longer  even  a  pretended  anger  at  his  son.  He 


AFTERWARDS  291 

chuckled  boastfully  over  "the  usual  sort  of  escapade," 
and  said  he'd  "be  glad  to  get  the  rascal  home — back  in 
sober  old  England" — "no  harm  done" — "devil  of  a 
good  time,  no  doubt;  hadn't  got  a  yen,  and  only  had  his 
allowance  eight  days  ago,  a  quarterly  allowance,  and 
the  Lord  Harry  only  knows  how  much  he's  bled  his 
mother!"  "But,  after  all" — and  then  he  delivered 
himself  of  the  amazing  originality  that  "Boys  will  be 
boys!" 

If  there  are  many  men  who  like  to  be  virtuous  vicari 
ously,  there  are  a  few,  even  odder  specimens  of  our 
wonderfully  variegated  humanity,  who  like  to  sin — in 
one  direction — by  proxy.  Robert  Gregory,  in  the  big 
thing  of  life,  was  an  exemplary  husband.  If  Florence 
Gregory  dwelt  but  in  the  suburbs  of  his  good  pleasure, 
he  lived — in  the  one  sense — on  an  island  on  to  which  no 
other  woman  ever  put  her  foot.  The  Gregory  Steam 
ship  Company  was  his  adored  mistress  and  his  wedded 
wife.  But  Florence  came  next  nearest  to  his  warmth — 
and  she  had  no  human  rival,  never  had  had  or  would 
have  one.  She  knew  this.  Even  a  much  duller  woman 
must  have  known  it.  And  perhaps  it  had  enabled  her  to 
hold  up  her  head  and  go  smiling  through  some  hard 
years  of  disillusion  and  chagrin. 

But  Robert  Gregory  had  a  very  soft  spot  in  his  stupid 
heart  for  his  boy's  gallantries.  Secretly  he  was  not  a 
little  proud  of  them — of  course,  they  mustn't  go  too  far 
or  cost  too  much — and  of  this  last  escapade  he  almost 
boasted  as  he  smoked  his  after-tiffin  cigar — boasted  with 
an  unctuous  hint  of  reminiscent  glee  that  insinuated — 
and  was  meant  to — that  he'd  been  a  bit  gay  "in.  the  same 
old  way"  in  his  younger  days. 

Which  most  emphatically  he  had  not. 


CHAPTER  XL 
A  GUEST  ON  HIGH 

AND  in  the  K'o-tang — the  smaller  audience  hall — 
where  he  had  died,  Wu  Li  Chang  lay  as  he  had 
fallen.  For  none  had  dared  to  disturb  him  for  a  long 
time,  unless  he  summoned  them.  And  now,  discovered 
by  an  early  sweeper  whose  duty  it  was  to  open  the  case 
ments  to  the  summer  dawn,  he  still  lay  undisturbed,  and 
would  lay  so  until  the  soothsayer  had  determined  to 
where  the  body  should  be  lifted  and  just  how. 

He  lay  upon  his  back,  his  face  lifted  to  the  paneled 
and  painted  ceiling. 

Almost  as  Florence  Gregory's  footsteps  died  from  his 
house,  a  great  change  swept  his  face.  The  contortions 
of  poisoned  death  had  left  it  set  and  agonized.  That 
passed  away.  He  was  smiling  when  they  found  him, 
as  even  Nang  Ping  had  never  seen  him  smile.  Only 
one  had  ever  seen  that  look  upon  his  face.  And  she  had 
only  seen  it  once — in  quite  the  fullness  of  its  beauty,  the 
majesty  of  its  declaration,  all  its  exquisite  tenderness. 
A  living  man  smiles  so  but  once.  Some  men  never  smile 
so — they  have  frittered  its  possibility  away — some  of 
them,  and  some  are  small  men,  and  it  is  not  for  then. 
It  is  a  hall-mark. 

It  is  a  hall-mark,  and  now  and  again  death  stamps 
it  caressingly  and  regally  upon  some  dead  man's  face; 
and  always  he  is  a  man  who  has  put  up  a  fine  good  fight, 
and  always  it  tells  that  there  it  marriage  in  Heaven. 

292 


A  GUEST  ON  HIGH  293 

Wu  Lu  had  seen  that  smile — once — in  Sze-chuan ;  and 
now,  in  that  near  garden-place  where  she  had  waited 
for  him  all  these  years,  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  held 
her  close;  and  she  gave  all  herself  to  him  again.  And 
he  looked  down  and  smiled  at  her,  his  bride. 

"Wu  Li  Chang  lay  dead  on  the  K'o-tang  floor,  and  his 
face  was  very  beautiful. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

"JUST    WITH   US" 

BETWEEN  breakfast  and  tiffin  Florence  Gregory 
sent  for  Basil,  and  he  went  to  her  heavily.  His 
feet  were  lead,  his  heart,  his  head;  and  his  hands  grew 
very  cold. 

The  interview  was  inevitable.     They  each  knew  that. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  say  which  dreaded  it  the  more, 
or  which  suffered  more  during  it:  probably  the  mother 
— both ;  for  she  was  guiltless  and  made  of  the  finer  clay. 

It  was  simple — almost  commonplace,  the  meeting  and 
the  short  talk  between  the  weary  woman  and  her  son; 
as  every  interview  of  intense  and  indeterminable  human 
tragedy  is  apt  to  be.  There  are  no  fripperies  in  true 
tragedy,  but  little  romance,  no  poetry.  The  rocks  of 
life  are  hard  and  naked.  Not  even  a  stunted  lichen  can 
grow  on  such  soilless  barrenness. 

But  this  was  a  very  different  reckoning  from  that 
with  his  father,  jocund  and  magnificently  indifferent  to 
details.  Basil  realized,  of  course,  that  settling  up  with 
his  mother  must  be — very  different. 

She  was  dressed  for  going  out,  elaborately  dressed; 
for  she  and  Ah  "Wong  had  decided  that  she  must  be 
seen  about  Hong  Kong  to-day,  carefully  dressed  and 
debonair. 

She  sat  in  a  low  chair  beside  her  dressing-table,  her 
long  gloves  and  her  purse  of  gold  mesh  at  her  hand. 
And  because  her  reputation,  and  Basil's,  were  at  stake, 

294 


"JUST  WITH  US"  295 

she  and  Ah  Wong  between  them  had  contrived  to  banish 
the  yesterday's  ravages  from  her  face — almost. 

Basil  looked  shockingly  ill.  Any  eyes  less  self-satis 
fied  than  a  Robert  Gregory's  must  have  seen  it. 

"You  should  go  and  lie  down,"  his  mother  greeted 
him. 

"Yes,  I  must,"  he  nodded,  "when  you've  done  with 
me." 

Ah  "Wong  went  out  and  closed  the  door. 

Florence  Gregory  waited  then  for  him  to  begin.  It 
was  the  first  unkindness  she  had  ever  done  him.  But 
she  was  very,  very  tired.  And  in  the  sleepless  watches 
of  the  night,  she  had  seen  clearly  Wu  Li  Chang's  point 
of  view,  and  not  altogether  without  some  sharp,  acrid 
conviction  that  it  had  some  justice  on  its  side — rough, 
terrible,  primeval,  barbaric,  but  still  undeniable  justice 
of  a  sort. 

Mrs.  Gregory  waited  for  her  son  to  speak,  and  he  did 
not  speak  soon. 

"Are  you  all  right,  Mother?"  he  said  at  last. 

"I  am  very  tired,"  she  told  him. 

"Yes — yes,  of  course  you  are.    But " 

"Oh — yes,"  she  said  gently,  "I  am  all  right." 

"Sure?" 

"Yes,  Basil!" 

"Quite,  Mother?"  he  persisted. 

"Yes,  Basil!"  she  told  him  again,  with  emphasis  this 
time.  And  then  she  smiled  a  little,  very  sadly,  thinking 
how  sardonic  it  was  that  he  should  be  standing  there 
cross-examining  her. 

"Thank  God!"  he  whispered  fervently — all  that  was 
best  in  him  welling  up  in  gratitude  that  his  mother  had 
escaped  a  more  cruel  wrong  than  he  had  inflicted  on 
murdered  Nang.  For  Nang  had  loved  him ! 


296  MR.  WU 

And  then  he  shuddered  sickly  at  the  sudden  thought 
that  always  his  mother  would  know  that  he  had  betrayed 
a  girl  to  her  death  and  worse,  a  girl  who  had  trusted  him 
— that  always  his  mother  would  be  thinking  of  it,  con 
demning  him — that  all  the  clean  sweetness  of  their  old- 
time,  life-long  intimacy  was  tainted — gone !  Always  his 
mother  must  feel  towards  him  regret — despisal.  Could 
he  ever  wipe  that  out?  Never.  Banish  it  or  even  dim 
it  for  a  moment?  Be  "her  boy"  again,  if  but  for  an 
hour? 

He  looked  at  her  searchingly,  and  at  his  eyes  she 
blanched.  For  she  read  in  them  his  fear,  and  knew  its 
echo  in  her  own  heart.  It  would  be  with  them  both — 
always;  nothing  could  ever  allay  it:  the  estrangement 
that  was  born  to-day!  She  saw  it  all!  She  read  it 
all — his  soul,  and  hers — and  suffered  as  she  had  not 
suffered  in  the  K'o-tang  of  Wu  Li  Chang.  And  her  soul 
quailed  and  grew  very  sick  before  the  vengeance  of  Wu, 
a  greater  vengeance  and  a  more  terrible  even  than  he 
had  planned. 

"We  need  never  snatch  at  vengeance  with  our  poor, 
feeble,  fumbling  hands.  God  always  repays.  And 
sometimes  it  seems  as  if  He,  like  the  Chinese,  enforces 
vicarious  atonement — daughters  scourged  for  fathers, 
mothers  for  sons,  and  even  friend  for  friend.  But 
sooner  or  later  the  great  ax  of  retribution  always  falls. 

Basil  Gregory  saw  the  grief  and  the  torture  in  his 
mother's  face.  "Oh!  well,  then,"  he  said,  strolling  to 
the  window,  and  standing  there  looking  out  across  the 
bay — towards  Kowloon — "that's  all  right.  They  say 
he's  dead — Wu — you've  heard  it?" 

"Yes." 

"I  wish  I  knew  if  it's  true." 

"It  is  true." 


"JUST  WITH  US"  297 

He  turned  back  to  her  quickly.  "How  do  you  know, 
Mother  ?  Are  you  dead  sure  ? ' ' 

' '  I  saw  him  die, ' '  she  said. 

At  that  her  boy  came  and  knelt  down  and  took  her 
hands  in  his. 

And  she  told  him — just  the  bare  facts  of  yesterday. 

Nang  Ping,  or  his  own  fault,  was  not  mentioned 
between  them,  then  or  ever.  Florence  Gregory  uttered 
no  reproach.  She  said  none,  and  she  tried  to  look  none. 
It  is  so  that  such  women  most  reproach  the  men  that 
they  have  borne — and  nursed. 

She  asked  no  details  of  his  amour  or  of  his  capture 
and  detention;  and  he  offered  none. 

And  it  was  better  so.  The  burden  of  their  common 
memory  was  heavy  enough — a  memory  from  which  noth 
ing  could  ever  purge  her  soul  or  his. 

"What  will  happen — about  it  all?  He  was  a  devil 
of  a  big  man  among  the  Chinks,"  Basil  said  anxiously 
when  he  spoke  again. 

"Yes,  I  know.  What  will  happen?  By  the  Chinese, 
you  mean?  Ah  Wong  thinks  nothing " 

"Ah  Wong!"  Basil  said  contemptuously. 

"She  saved  my  life — and  yours " 

"By  a  Chinese  trick." 

"It  served/'  Mrs.  Gregory  said  gravely.  "Ah  Wong 
knows  her  people.  And  she  thinks  nothing  will  be  done 
— soon,  if  ever.  And  we  will  leave  China  at  once.  I 
think  your  father '11  be  glad  to — he's  been  anxious  enough 
to  get  back  to  float  the  new  Company.  But,  if  for  any 
reason  he  wishes  to  wait  even  a  little,  why,  I  must  get 
Hilda  to  coax  him  to  go  at  once.  You,  at  least,  must 
go  by  the  next  boat." 

Basil  nodded.  "Yes,  I'd  like  to  catch  the  next  com 
fortable  boat. " 


298  MR.  WU 

""Well  all  catch  it,  if  we  can,"  his  mother  said  em 
phatically. 

"Is  that  all,  Mother?"  he  asked  her  gently. 

"All?"  she  was  puzzled. 

"All  you  want  of  me?" 

"Oh!    Yes,  dear,"  she  said  brightly. 

"Then  I  believe  I'll  go  and  lie  down  again.  I'm  jelly 
tired  and  jolly  weak." 

"Yes — do,"  Florence  said. 

But  at  the  door  he  turned  back  and  came  to  her  and 
took  her  in  his  arms. 

"God  bless  you,  Mother!"  he  whispered  with  his  lips 
against  her  hair. 

' '  God  bless  my  boy ! ' '  she  answered  brokenly. 

Then  he  kissed  her  passionately,  and  turned  away 
sobbing. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  she  said  when  he  had  smothered 
back  his  emotion  and  had  put  his  hand  again  on  the 
door.  "I  did  forget  one  thing.  Make  no  explanation 
— not  to  any  one. ' ' 

"What  about  the  governor?" 

"Least  of  all  to  him.  Your  father  will  ask  you  not 
another  question;  he  has  promised  me." 

"I  say,  Mother,"  Basil  said,  flushing  painfully,  "you 
are  a  bit  of  a  brick — aren  't  you  ? ' ' 

"I  am  your  mother,  Basil,"  she  returned,  smiling 
into  his  eyes.  "Eemember,  not  one  word  to  any  human 
creature.  Promise  me.  Let  it  rest  where  it  is  forever 
— just  with  us." 

And  there  they  left  it — glad  to  be  rid  of  it,  as  far 

as  words  went,  but  knowing  that,  waking  or  sleeping, 

neither  could  ever  be  rid  of  it  in  thought  again.     It  was 

a  poison  cooked  into  their  blood. 

For  years  they  did  not  speak  of  it  again,  except  that 


"JUST  WITH  US"  299 

Basil  said  when  she  came  to  him  later  with  a  cup  of  tea — 
he  had  slept  through  tiffin,  and  she  would  not  have  him 
called— "What  about  Ah  Wong?  She  knows." 

His  mother  answered  him  proudly:  "I  trust  Ah 
Wong.  Ah  Wong  knows,  of  course — part  at  least.  But 
it  will  be  always  precisely  as  if  she  knew  nothing." 

Basil  shrugged  skeptically,  sitting  up  among  his  pil 
lows.  And  his  mother  put  the  tray  down  and  left  him 
a  little  hurriedly.  There  is  little  a  woman  finds  harder 
to  bear  than  a  man's  ingratitude.  Florence  Gregory 
was  ashamed  of  her  son. 

She  had  tiffined  early,  and  before  tiffin  and  since 
she  had  been  out  and  about:  shopping,  paying  calls, 
laughing,  chatting,  the  brightest  woman  in  Hong  Kong, 
the  best  dressed,  and  the  most  care-free.  And  now  she 
went  out  again,  sitting  radiant  and  chic  in  her  smart 
chair,  carried  wherever  she  would  be  most  seen.  She 
stayed  a  little  at  the  racquets  court  and  at  the  cricket 
club.  But  she  did  not  leave  her  chair.  She  was  too 
tired — almost  at  the  end  of  her  woman's  long  tetiie:i. 


CHAPTER  XLII 
THE  DUST  OP  CHINA  FROM  THEIR  FEET 

Gregorys  sailed  from  Hong  Kong  the  next  week, 
J_  and  half  the  Colony  saw  them  off.  One  means,  of 
course,  half  the  Europeans:  the  Chinese  don't  count — in 
China.  But  John  Bradley  did  not  see  them  off — nor 
had  he  come  to  wish  them  good-by.  Hilda  was  offended, 
and  Basil  was  grateful.  (He  could  be  grateful  at  times.) 
Except  Florence,  none  of  them  had  seen  the  priest  since 
the  night  Basil  had  consulted  him.  Mrs.  Gregory  called 
upon  him  two  days  after  her  escape.  She  had  sent  a 
note  asking  him  to  come  to  her  at  the  hotel.  He  had 
replied  asking  if  she  could,  and  kindly  would,  come  to 
him  instead;  he  knew  she'd  been  out  continuously  the 
day  before.  And  she  had  gone  at  once. 

Of  Kowloon  she  had  told  him  nothing:  when  she  had 
enjoined  silence  on  Basil,  she  had  meant  silence;  and 
she  had  no  thought  of  breaking  it  towards  any  one. 

She  had  wished  to  see  him  before  they  left  Hong 
Kong,  she  said,  and  they  were  going  home  at  once  now. 

Mrs.  Gregory  had  a  very  sincere  affection  for  John 
Bradley.  If  she  had  been  in  Hilda's  shoes,  she'd  not 
have  given  him  for  a  wilderness  of  Tom  Carrutherses,  she 
thought.  And  in  leaving  Hong  Kong  she  was  leaving 
behind  her  nothing  that  she  regretted  more  than  her 
talks  with  Bradley;  except  Ah  Wong.  That  was  her 
great  regret,  for  she  was  leaving  Ah  Wong. 

The  amah  had  refused  to  quit  her  country.    Mrs. 
200 


THE  DUST  OF  CHINA  301 

Gregory  had  pleaded  at  last.  Ah  Wong  would  not 
budge.  Hilda  was  indifferent,  Mr.  Gregory  not  sorry, 
and  Basil  Gregory  was  meanly  glad. 

And  John  Bradley  was  glad,  too,  when  he  heard  it, 
but  not  meanly.  He  knew  that  the  amah  knew  more 
than  any  other  living  person  did  of  all  that  had  hap 
pened — far  more  than  he  knew  or  even  suspected — and 
he  was  sure  that  her  presence  with  them  in  England 
would  make  for  a  blight  upon  the  entire  Gregory  family 
— a  blight  which  all  her  devotion  and  all  her  deft  service 
could  not  counterbalance. 

It  was  partly  concerning  Ah  "Wong  that  Mrs.  Gregory 
had  called.  Would  he  befriend  the  woman — her  amah, 
perhaps  he'd  noticed  her? — if  he  could  ever? 

"Oh,  yes!"  he  said,  he  "had  noticed  her,  several 
times."  He  did  not  add  how  well  he  knew  her,  or  how 
highly  he  valued  her,  or  that  he  had  received  her  in  this 
very  room,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  not  long  ago. 
But  he  promised  cordially  to  do  any  earthly  thing  he 
ever  could  for  the  Chinese  woman.  It  was  a  queer 
legacy  for  a  bachelor  priest,  he  said,  laughing,  but  all 
was  fish  that  came  to  his  net — pastoral  or  otherwise — and 
he  accepted  Ah  Wong  heartily.  She  should  come  into 
his  service,  if  she  would — potter  about  the  bungalow, 
sit  hunched  up  on  the  verandah  and  sew,  or  play  a  guitar 
or  a  native  drum  or  something  in  the  compound — and, 
if  she  declined  his  service,  still  he'd  try  to  contrive  to 
look  after  her  some  other  way.  He  'd  keep  an  eye  on  her, 
a  friendly,  helpful  eye — if  she'd  let  him — seriously  he 
would. 

And  he  echoed  fervently  the  amah's  entreaty  that  the 
Gregorys  should  leave  China  at  once — at  once — let  the 
order  of  their  going  be  what  it  would,  the  comforts  or 
discomforts  of  the  first  outgoing  boat  just  what  they 


3o2  MR.  WU 

might.  Nothing  mattered,  absolutely  nothing,  except 
for  them  to  go — to  go  at  once,  and  never  to  return. 

"You'll  say  good-by  to  them  all  for  me?"  he  begged, 
"I — I  may  be  called  away  for  a  few  days  by  any  post. 
But  please  say  my  good-bys  to  them  all :  your  husband — 
and  Basil — and  to  your  daughter.  And,  Mrs.  Gregory, 
young  Carruthers  is  staying  here,  you  said.  I'll  look 
him  up  as  soon  as  I  know  you've  sailed,  and  111  look 
after  him  a  bit,  be  a  sort  of  parson  his-man-Friday,  if 
the  boy '11  let  me." 

"Tom? — Tom's  a  nice  boy — I  think,"  Mrs.  Gregory 
said  a  trifle  hesitantly. 

"I  think  so  too,"  the  priest  said  cordially. 

She  was  going  into  the  city  when  she  feft  him,  and 
he  went  almost  to  the  level  with  her,  walking  beside  her 
chair. 

"Remember,"  he  said  at  parting,  "you'll  go  at  once. 
And  you'll  none  of  you  come  back — ever." 

"We  will  go  at  once,"  she  told  him  earnestly.  "And 
we  will  not  come  back."  But  to  that  last  there  was  a 
small  reservation  at  the  far  back  of  her  mind.  She 
thought  it  just  possible  that  Hilda  might  come  back — 
some  day.  Not  that  Hilda  particularly  liked  China; 
she  did  not — she  greatly  preferred  Kensington.  But, 
if  Holman  thought  well  of  Tom  Carruthers,  it  was  prob 
able  that  he — now  that  Basil  was  definitely  out  of  the 
Hong  Kong  running — might  be  permanently  attached  to 
that  branch,  and  ultimately  its  head. 

And  with  one  slight  deviation,  Mrs.  Gregory  kept  the 
promise  she  made  John  Bradley  as  he  stood  bare-headed 
beside  her  chair.  For  they  did  sail — almost  at  once. 
And  only  one  of  them  ever  came  back — Hilda. 

The  long  voyage  home  differed  in  nothing  from  all 
other  such  voyages.  Not  one  voyage  in  ten  thousand 


THE  DUST  OF  CHINA  303 

ever  does  differ  from  other  voyages.  It  is  impossible. 
They  made  the  same  stops,  the  same  changes,  ate  the 
same  food,  had  the  same  fellow  passengers.  Nothing 
short  of  pirates  or  a  shoal  of  ship-devouring  Jonah's 
whales  could  differentiate  one  P.  &  0.  passage  from 
another. 

But  Hilda  Gregory  found  this 'one  a  little  dull  at  first, 
and  was  driven  in  self-respect  to  appropriate  the  ship's 
surgeon  and  two  homing  subalterns. 

For  Basil  and  their  mother  were  inseparable,  and  the 
father  who  heretofore  had  been  her  faithful,  if  not  too 
picturesque,  knight  lived  in  the  smoking-room,  telling 
again  and  again  the  story  of  his  cowing  of  the  great 
Chinese  ' '  I  Am, ' '  Wu  Li  Chang.  Robert  Gregory,  never 
a  wordless  man,  had  never  talked  so  much  in  all  his  life. 

It  was  impossible  to  pass  the  smoking-room  door 
without  catching  some  such  scrap  of  English  master 
piece  as :  "I  put  him  through  it. "  " The  damned  nig 
ger  was  only  bluffing.  Well,  I  damn  well  called  his 
bluff!"  "...  and  that's  where  a  knowledge  of  the 
Chinaman  comes  in — an  inside,  intelligent  knowledge. 
They  like  to  be  thought  clever,  I  tell  you.  Don't  you  see 
that  it  flattered  him  that  I  should  think — seem  to  think, 
of  course — that  he  was  a  sort  of  Mister  Know- All  ? — and 
he  was  sly  enough  to  play  up  to  it.  Oh!  he  was  sly,  I 
grant  you  that.  But  no  match  for  me;  no  real  ability." 
"Yes;  as  I  told  you,  he  hummed  and  hawed  a  bit  at 
first,  until  I  simply  turned  him  inside  out,  and  then  I 
could  see  he  knew  nothing.  It  was  only  tickling  his 
vanity  to  let  him  imagine  I  thought  he  was  a  little  local 
god.  That's  why  I  left  him  to  Mrs.  Gregory.  I  saw  it 
was  a  mere  waste  of  my  time.  And  it  pleased  her,  and, 
too,  it  took  her  mind  off  the  boy  a  bit.  She  was  fretting 
over  him — the  young  dog! — until  I  thought  she'd  make 


304  MR.  WU 

herself  downright  ill."  "Oh!  we  flatter  these  damned 
Chinamen  too  much  in  thinking  them  so  clever."  "Oh ! 
if  you  know  the  way  to  manage  Chinamen.  You  should 
have  seen  the  way  I  talked  to  that  compradore.  I 
frightened  the  beggar — just  as  I'd  frightened  Wu  the 
day  before.  He  saw  it  was  a  bit  dangerous  to  play  any 
games  with  me,  by  the  Lord  Harry,  and  so  he  called  off 
the  strike.  I  scared  him  stiff.  And  I  scared  Wu  half 
to  death,  I  can  tell  you."  "Oh,  yes!  he's  dead,  right 
enough.  No,  I  don't  know  how  he  died.  Perhaps  he 
was  ordered  to  commit  suicide.  Well,  I  had  no  objec 
tion,  I  can  tell  you.  And  I  shan't  go  into  much  black 
for  him."  "He  always  was  a  bit  of  a  handful.  Kept 
his  school-masters  busy.  But  that  did  them  good  and 
him  no  harm.  And  they  were  well  paid  for  it.  Boys 
will  be  boys,  you  know.  Why,  when  I  was  his  age.  ..." 

In  the  smoking-room  other  men  came  and  went  all 
day  and  a  good  bit  of  the  night,  but  Robert  Gregory's 
voice  went  on  forever.  And  Mrs.  Gregory  and  Basil, 
walking  up  and  down,  grew  careful  to  keep  at  the  other 
end  of  the  big  ship.  For  the  smoking-room  was  near 
the  front,  and  opened  on  to  both  sides  of  the  promenade 
deck. 

Basil  Gregory  scarcely  left  his  mother  from  Hong 
Kong  to  Liverpool. 

As  the  great  ship  drew  anchor,  he  drew  her  arm  in 
his,  and  they  stood  together  so  and  watched  Hong  Kong 
until  their  sight  had  gone  from  it  quite.  This  was  their 
passing  from  China,  but  not  from  tragedy,  and  the 
woman  knew  it. 

They  did  not  speak  of  Wu  Li  Chang.  They  had 
spoken  of  him  definitely  together  for  the  last  time.  They 
did  not  speak  at  all  as  the  island  faded  slowly  away  from 
them.  But  they  knew  that  to-day  the  mandarin's 


THE  DUST  OF  CHINA  305 

interminable  funeral  cortege  started  from  Kowloon  to 
Sze-chuan.  For  they  were  taking  the  dead  man  to  his 
old  home — taking  him  tenderly  with  shriek  of  fife  and 
howl  of  drum,  coffined  almost  as  splendidly  as  the  Mace 
donian  in  his  casket  of  gold.  And  no  son  followed  Wu 
Li  Chang!  But  behind  the  mandarin's  coffin  they  car 
ried,  more  meekly,  a  simpler,  smaller  one.  And  Sing 
Kung  Yah  walked  behind  them  both,  almost  bare-footed, 
clad  in  coarse  unbleached  hemp.  This  was  her  last 
secular  function,  if  one  may  speak  so  of  any  human 
burial  rite ;  for  when  at  last  Wu  Li  Chang  and  "Wu  Nang 
Ping  were  laid  beside  their  dead  ancestors  in  far-off  Sze- 
chuan,  Sing  Kung  Yah,  if  she  lived  so  far — the  road 
was  long  and  rough — would  seek  life-long  sanctuary  in 
the  Taoist  nunnery  of  her  abbess  cousin. 

As  long  as  Anglo-Hong  Kong's  eyes  had  been  upon 
her,  Mrs.  Gregory  had  borne  herself  bravely — gayly  even. 
But  she  was  breaking  now,  and  with  each  revolution  of 
the  ship 's  great  wheel  she  showed  a  little  older,  a-  little 
more  limp.  "You're  looking  downright  washed  out," 
Gregory  told  her;  "high  time  we  got  you  home."  Al 
ready  she  was  no  longer  Basil  Gregory's  young  and 
pretty  mother.  No  passenger  among  them  all  mistook 
her  for  his  sister.  She  would  never  be  so  mistaken  again. 
But  he  was  very  tender  of  her,  and  offered  her  a  daily 
atonement  of  constant  companionship  and  of  those  little 
tendings  which  mean  so  much  more  to  a  woman  than 
any  great  sacrifice  or  big  climax  of  devotion  ever  can. 
(If  women  are  small  iii  this,  they  are  also  exquisite  by  it.) 

They  clung  together  pathetically.  And,  at  the  same 
time,  each  shrank  from  the  other  a  little,  almost  uncon 
sciously,  and  quite  in  spite  of  themselves.  Their  souls 
shrank;  their  hearts  clung. 

Basil  sensed  that  she  grieved  over  his  crime,  and,  as 


306  MR.  WU 

he  thought,  out  of  all  proportion  to  its  real  seriousness, 
and  that  also  she  condemned  and  despised  it.  He  was 
far  from  self-absolution.  His  conscience  was  not  dead. 
But  he  resented  her  disapproval  and  the  implied 
"charity"  of  her  careful  considerateness  and  studied 
cheerfulness. 

Her  soul- withdrawal  from  him  was  more  justified,  and 
of  more  moment  and  dignity  than  his  from  her.  For 
once  or  twice  she  just  glimpsed  almost  an  antagonism,  a 
seed  of  hatred — born  of  his  writhing  conscience — that 
was  slowly  cankering  in  his  mind.  That  he  should  doubt 
the  all-forgiveness  of  her  love  grieved  her  sorely,  but  she 
recognized  that  it  certainly  was  involuntary,  and  prob 
ably  was  inevitable;  but  that,  even  so,  he  presumed  to 
arraign  her  at  the  judgment  seat  of  his  peccant  soul, 
blaming  her  that  she  could  not  forget,  could  not  quite 
condone,  incensed  her  bitterly. 

The  grave  secret  that  they  shared,  and  that  no  one 
else  now  of  their  world  even  suspected,  linked  them 
tightly — too  tightly:  the  gyves  hurt.  And  while  it 
linked  it  separated.  They  were  closer  together  than 
they  had  ever  been  before;  closer  than  even  a  mother 
and  son  should  be ;  closer  than  any  two  human  creatures 
should  be.  They  violated,  with  the  hideousness  of  their 
mutual  knowledge,  each  other's  utmost  right  of  privacy 
— the  soul-privacy  which  God  and  nature  command  that 
with  each  human  entity  shall  be  forever  inviolable. 

He  suffered  at  her  suffering.  He  brooded  over  her. 
He  was  very  tender  of  his  mother.  But  between  them, 
and  in  them  mutually,  a  poison  worked.  Their  love  was 
exquisite  and  human  still;  their  companionship,  and 
even  their  sympathy,  warm  and  sincere.  But  a  slight 
cloud  hung  over  them,  a  cloud  no  bigger  than  a  dead 
man's  hand.  It  grew  a  little  darker  every  day. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 
ENGLISH  WEDDING  BELLS 

BASIL  GREGORY'S  wedding  day  was  warm  and 
clear.  June  and  England  were  at  their  best. 

It  was  a  sweetly  pretty  wedding.     Every  one  said  so. 

And  the  girlish  bride  was  prettier  than  her  wedding — 
prettier  than  any  mere  picture  could  be;  as  pretty  and 
as  sweet  as  the  June  roses  she  wore,  and  very  like  them : 
pink  and  white,  delicate,  fair-haired,  violet-eyed  Alice 
Lee,  the  motherless  daughter  of  the  incumbent  of  the 
old  gray  vicarage  in  which  Basil  Gregory's  mother  had 
been  born. 

Homesick  for  the  old  days  and  the  old  ways,  Florence 
Gregory  had  gone  to  Oxfordshire  soon  after  their  return 
to  England,  hoping  to  bathe  and  to  heal  her  stained  and 
torn  spirit  in  the  quiet  of  old  places,  the  ointment  of  pure 
memories.  She  had  failed.  But  she  had  made  fast 
friends  with  her  dead  father's  successor,  and  had  gone 
back  to  the  cordial  hospice  of  her  old  home  again  and 
again  in  the  three  years  that  had  elapsed  since  she  had 
come  from  China.  A  year  ago  Basil  had  accompanied 
her,  none  too  willingly,  for  a  week-end,  had  stayed  a 
month;  hence  these  wedding  bells! 

Florence  Gregory  was  an  old  woman  now,  old  and 
limp.  Robert  Gregory  was  no  longer  proud  of  his  wife. 
Her  white  hair  was  very  beautiful,  but  he  resented  it, 
and  it  rasped  and  angered  him  that  she  had  prematurely 
aged.  He  had  married  her,  as  he  had  loved  her,  for  her 

307 


308  MR.  WU 

buoyant  good  looks,  and  he  felt  that  he  was  defrauded 
by  the  change  in  her — a  change  so  marked  that  even  his 
careless  and  ledger-bound  eyes  could  not  fail  to  see  it. 
And  secretly  his  poor  mundane  spirit  groaned  aloud 
that  his  missus — the  best-dressed  woman  in  Hong  Kong 
three  years  ago,  and  every  bit  as  smart  as  her  clothes — 
had  degenerated  into  a  frumpish  nobody,  looked  older 
than  he  did,  by  the  Lord  Harry,  and  without  an  ounce 
of  snap  in  her  or  a  word  to  say  to  any  one.  Greatly 
to  his  credit,  he  had  kept  all  this  to  himself  loyally.  He 
had  never  spoken  of  it,  not  even  hinted  at  it,  to  any  one, 
beyond  plaintive  and  repeated  entreaties  to  Hilda  to  help 
him  find  some  way  to  buck  Mother  up.  He  had  never 
been  unkind  to  his  wife.  He  still  bought  flowers  for  her 
— the  bouquet  she  carried  at  their  son's  wedding  had  cost 
five  guineas — and  burdened  her  with  gifts  of  jewelry 
almost  inappropriate  to  his  means.  And  Mr.  Gregory 
was  growing  very  rich  indeed.  The  wounds  that  "Mr. 
Wu"  had  dealt  his  fortune  had  soon  healed,  and  left  no 
scar.  He  was  still  a  faithful  husband.  Such  pride  and 
consolation  as  a  woman  may  take  from  the  continence 
that  is  chiefly  the  outcome  of  a  husband's  indifference  to 
her  sex  and  of  his  absorption  in  business  and  in  self 
were  Mrs.  Gregory's.  And  in  all  their  married  life  they 
had  had  but  one  quarrel — a  unique  quarrel,  as  hus 
bands  and  wives  go.  It  had  occurred  two  years  ago,  and 
had  been  over  a  dressmaker's  bill. 

Such  quarrels  are  common?  They  are  scarcely  un 
common — certainly  not  unique.  But  this  was  one  with 
a  difference.  Mr.  Gregory  had  always  seen  and  paid 
his  wife's  dressmakers'  bills.  It  had  been  one  of  his 
greatest  pleasures.  Madame  Eloise  had  taken  less  plea 
sure  in  concocting  those  princely  accounts,  and  in  re 
ceipting  them,  than  Robert  Gregory  had  taken  in  writing 


ENGLISH  WEDDING  BELLS  309 

the  cheques  that  had  discharged  them.  Two  years  ago 
a  quarterly  account  had  come  in  in  two  figures.  That 
was  too  much.  Gregory  raged  at  his  wife,  and  after  an 
impatient  word  or  two,  she  had  bit  her  lip,  smiled  and 
promised  reform.  And  she  had  kept  her  word;  for  she 
had  seen  his  point  of  view  and  the  justice  of  his  com 
plaint.  But  the  latest  fashions  no  longer  suited  her. 
Still  less  did  she  now  suit  them.  Wu  Li  Chang  and 
Basil  Gregory  had  sapped  her  of  the  courage  and  the 
carriage  to  wear  smart  gowns.  Her  beaut e  de  diable  was 
quite  gone — she  had  left  it  in  a  Chinese  K'o-tang;  and 
the  finer  beauty  that  had  replaced  it  this  husband  had 
no  eyes  to  see. 

But  Hilda  saw,  and  between  the  mother  and  daughter 
had  grown  a  tenderness  and  a  friendship  that  had  not 
been  theirs  before.  "Your  mouth  is  the  most  beautiful 
thing  I  ever  saw,  Mother,"  the  girl  said  sometimes. 
And  it  was  very  beautiful,  with  an  exquisite  loveliness 
that  only  the  lips  that  have  been  steeped  in  hyssop  can 
ever  show. 

Hilda  was  the  only  bridesmaid  to-day.  She  had 
none  of  the  bride's  soft  prettiness,  and  only  a  fair 
amount  of  the  splendid  good  looks  that  her  own  mother 
had  lost.  But  she  had  gained  in  charm,  in  tact,  in 
womanliness,  and,  too,  even  in  girlishness. 

Her  engagement  to  Tom  Carruthers  was  broken. 
The  breaking  had  grieved  her — at  the  time.  The  day 
Carruthers  had  sailed  for  England  to  claim  Hilda  and  to 
take  her  back  to  China,  a  Chinese  girl  had  thrown  her 
self  into  Hong  Kong  harbor.  Oddly,  the  story  had 
reached  England — oddly,  because  such  stories  are  so 
common.  But  this  one  had  in  some  way  trickled  across 
the  world,  and  to  Hilda.  Hilda  had  probed  it,  and  had 
given  Tom  back  his  ring.  It  had  not  been  a  very  black 


310  MR.  WU 

case,  as  such  things  go.  The  Chinese  girl  was  nobody's 
daughter.  Carruthers  had  never  deceived  her,  and  had 
promised  her  nothing  that  he  had  not  given.  But  she 
had  grown  to  care  for  him.  0  curse  of  womanhood ! 

And  Hilda  had  a  sturdy,  wholesome  instinct  of  virtue, 
a  matter-of-course  as  towards  herself,  relentless  towards 
others,  that  she  had  inherited  from  her  mother,  but  not 
from  her  mother  alone;  and  she  also  had  a  quick,  curt, 
businesslike  method  of  dealing  with  the  facts  and  inci 
dents  of  life  that  she  had  inherited  solely  from  Robert 
Gregory.  She  considered  her  engagement  to  Tom  Car 
ruthers  a  bad  debt;  and  she  wrote  it  off  with  a  steady 
hand.  Basil  was  angry  with  her,  and  had  upbraided 
her.  ' '  Girls  don 't  understand  such  things ! "  he  told  her 
petulantly.  "But  I  thought  you  had  more  sense." 

"I  understand  myself,"  she  had  retorted  haughtily. 

Needless  to  say,  Carruthers  also  was  angry,  and 
shared  his  anger  with  generous,  masculine  impartiality 
between  Hilda  Gregory  and  I  Matt  So.  Mrs.  Gregory 
was  glad.  And  it  was  she  who  mentioned  the  news  (but 
not  its  circumstance)  in  her  next  letter  to  Hong  Kong. 
Hilda's  father  was  indifferent.  There  was  time  enough 
for  so  rich  a  man's  daughter,  and  the  finest  girl  in  Eng 
land,  by  the  Lord  Harry,  any  day;  and  as  for  Tom,  she 
might  do  worse,  of  course,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  she 
might  do  a  long  sight  better. 

It  was  not  Basil's  old  misdemeanor  that  had  so  broken 
his  mother,  nor  was  it  her  experience  in  the  K'o-tang 
of  Wu  Li  Chang.  It  was  the  estrangement  that  had 
grown  between  her  and  her  son — an  estrangement  that 
had  become  almost  a  bitterness.  At  times  it  was  a  bit 
terness. 

A  great  secret  shared  between  two,  and  inviolably 
kept  by  both,  must  be  either  a  great  bond  or  a  great 


ENGLISH  WEDDING  BELLS  311 

alienation.  The  terrific  secret  shared  by  Florence  Greg 
ory  and  her  boy  proved  both.  They  never  spoke  of 
it.  But,  for  that,  it  burdened  and  haunted  them  the 
more. 

So  far  as  she  blamed  him  for  his  old  fault  his  mother 
had  quite  forgiven  Basil. 

But  he  could  not  forgive  her. 

It  cut  her  to  the  quick.  But  she  could  not  blame  Basil 
for  it.  And  she  sorrowed  for  him,  more  than  she  did 
for  herself,  that  she  was  powerless  to  give  him  convic 
tion  of  the  good  truth  that  her  forgiveness  was  "perfect 
and  entire,  wanting  nothing,"  her  love  unchanged. 

And  sometimes  when  the  soul-poison  scummed  thickest 
in  him,  because  of  it,  Basil  Gregory  loved  his  mother  a 
little  less.  The  high  place  to  which  sons  in  their  souls 
set  mothers  carries  a  great  price. 

But  this  was  not  the  worst  between  them.  At  times 
— and  these  were  his  blackest — Basil  Gregory  wondered 
if,  at  the  absolute  last,  his  mother  would  have  failed  him, 
would  have  refused  to  spare,  at  her  supremest  cost,  the 
life  she  had  given  him.  Would  she  at  the  last  hideous 
resort  have  grudged  him  her  all  ?  Sometimes  he  thought 
that  she  would.  And  when  he  thought  so  he  blamed  her. 
And  for  that  blame,  his  mother,  who  read  his  very  soul, 
a  little  despised  him,  and  she  could  not  forgive  it. 

Wu  Li  Chang  had  wreaked  a  vengeance  more  terrible 
than  he  had  planned.  For  when  in  a  mother's  soul 
there  is  something  that  she  cannot  forgive  the  son  she 
has  borne  and  nursed  and  still  loves,  human  tragedy 
has  reached  its  depth. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

THE  SOUND  OP  A  CHINESE  GONG 

IT  was  a  pretty  wedding,  and  very  simple.  The  Leeii 
were  simple  English  gentlefolk. 

It  was  a  quiet  ceremony,  quietly  performed.  There 
was  but  little  music;  no  fife,  no  drum,  no  clang.  The 
old  organist  played  softly.  (Neither  he  nor  Mrs.  Greg 
ory  gave  a  thought  to  who  had  given  the  instrument; 
and  no  one  else  there  had  ever  known.)  No  incense 
burned.  The  English  sunshine,  perfumed  by  the  roses 
that  grew  about  the  village  graves,  drifted  softly  through 
the  old  church  windows  and  dappled  on  the  chancel  floor 
and  on  the  altar  rails  and  on  the  organ's  pipes.  And 
the  holy  place  was  sweet  with  quiet  harmony. 

Even  Robert  Gregory,  spruce  and  straight,  wearing 
the  whitest  pair  of  gloves,  and  almost  tightest  into 
which  human  hands  were  ever  packed,  was  content.  He 
was  glad  to  see  Basil  settled.  The  girl  had  no  "dot," 
but  she  was  pretty  enough  to  eat ;  and  his  manliness  was 
of  a  straight,  sturdy  stuff,  and  held  that  a  man  should 
earn  and  provide  for  his  wife,  by  the  Lord  Harry,  every 
time.  And  for  once  he  was  satisfied  again  with  Mrs. 
Gregory's  appearance.  She  looked  fine  in  her  gray  and 
gold,  and  the  emeralds  at  her  breast  and  pinning  the 
scrap  of  bonnet  on  her  white  curls  were  some  style. 

Hilda  listened  to  the  old  service  with  a  rapt,  tender 
face.  John  Bradley  was  coming  home  for  six  months  of 
holiday  next  week.  She  had  no  doubt  that  he'd  come  to 
see  her  mother. 


THE  SOUND  OF  A  CHINESE  GONG       313 

Mrs.  Gregory  was  not  displeased.  It  was  no  part 
of  her  regret  to  wish  that  Basil  should  live  all  his  life 
wifeless  and  childless.  And  the  rift  between  her  boy 
and  her  saved  her  the  jealousy  that  happier  mothers 
must  suffer  when  their  first-born  son  weds.  Sorry  re 
compense — but  recompense. 

Basil  Gregory  did  not  make  a  very  brave  bridegroom. 
But  only  his  mother  noticed  it.  Most  wedding-guests 
have  little  eye  to  spare  for  mere  bridegrooms.  And 
there  is  something  about  the  function  so  trying  to 
masculine  sensitiveness  that  before  now  kings  and  heroes 
have  carried  themselves  a  little  craven  at  their  happiest 
triumph. 

Basil  Grgory  saw  two  girls  beside  him  at  God's  altar. 

As  he  passed  down  the  aisle  with  his  wife 's  shy  hand 
on  his  arm,  he  felt  the  touch  of  a  smaller,  tawnier  hand. 
Its  weight  hurt  him;  it  was  heavy  with  fabulous  nail- 
protectors  and  with  priceless  rings.  He  was  madly  in 
love  with  his  wife,  and,  too,  he  was  madly  miserable,  be 
cause  he  knew  now  that  they  two  would  never  be  quite 
alone — neither  by  day  nor  by  night.  His  mother  saw 
and  knew.  Just  before  they  passed  her  he  stumbled  a 
little,  startled  by  the  sound  of  a  Chinese  gong. 

And  a  few  hours  later,  in  the  still  sweetness  of  the 
dark,  it  smote  him  again. 

Best,  Wu  Li  Chang!  Be  satisfied!  The  Englishman 
is  punished.  He  has  broken  his  mother's  heart.  Your 
curse  is  fulfilled.  Basil  Gregory  heard  your  gong  cry 
out  a  soul's  damnation  to-day  above  his  wife's  "I  will." 
So  long  as  he  lives  he  will  hear  it,  a  bitter,  relentless 
knell.  When  ginger  is  hottest  in  his  mouth,  when  wine 
bubbles  reddest  in  his  cup,  when  the  English  girl  he 
loves  lifts  with  tired,  triumphant  hands  their  first-born 
toward  his  arms,  through  the  young  mother's  misty 


MR.  WU 

smile  he  will  see  Nang's  face,  above  the  baby's  first  cry 
he  will  hear  the  throbbing  note  of  a  Chinese  gong. 

Rest !  Sleep  in  your  Sze-chuan  grave !  Your  hideous 
vengeance  is  complete,  life-long,  soul-deep.  It  is 
greater  than  even  you  could  have  planned.  Almost 
it  is  adequate. 


"The  great  mountain  must  crumble, 
The  strong  beam  must  break, 
The  wise  man  must  wither  away  like  a 
Confucius  crooned  as  he  died. 


THE  END 


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